Burn This City
by Bella Winter Rose
Summary: December 24, 1999 – how can ten years have passed? It's a new millennia and the group of seven has disbanded and are no longer together in the East Village...but only one thing can bring them together. Mark once again finds himself the witness.
1. Burn This City

**SUMMARY: **December 24, 1999 – how can ten years have passed? It's a new millennia and the group of seven has disbanded and are no longer together in the East Village...but only one thing can bring them together. Mark once again finds himself the witness.

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Jonathan Larson's characters, but I did throw in several of my own original characters, including Calvin Davis, Stephanie Cohen and Luc Thibodeaux, as well as Maureen and Joanne's children. Pretty much everyone except the obvious are MINE. Also, I claim no rights to any of the songs quoted at the beginning of each chapter.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This fic basically takes place between December 1999 and December 2000, but it will jump back and forth between then and the past. Enjoy.

* * *

_Our days were numbered by nights on too many rooftops  
They said we're wasting our lives  
But oh, at least we know  
That if we die  
We lived with passion  
They said we'd burn so bright  
We burn this city and go.  
_Cartel, "Burn This City" 

_  
"Maureen, give it back!" _

_"Hi, Mark! Happy New Year, Mark!" _

_"You're going to break it! This is not my bar mitzvah!" _

Stephanie shuffled into the chilled living room of the SoHo loft, in her flannel pajamas and robe, finding her husband in front of the television…again. "Mark, it's two in the morning," she yawned. Outside, snow was softly falling, covering New York City in a silky white blanket of fluff.

"I know."

"Are you watching your home movies again?" she asked, coming to stand behind the couch where Mark was seated in lounge pants and a plain white undershirt.

"They're not just home movies," Mark gave Stephanie a playful little glare.

Stephanie sighed. "Sorry, I know. Your _documentary_. Why do you keep watching that? You're on to bigger and better things." She sat next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I know," Mark gave a small sigh. He was a freelance video editor, editing news segments for ABC, NBC, CBS, etc. Occasionally he would branch out to their sister corporations like MSNBC and CNN. Since he was freelance, he only got paid when he received work. Sometimes, his hours in his production room seemed endless; on the other hand, the room could sit cold and empty for days. "It's so hard to believe…this all happened ten years ago. Feels like yesterday."

Stephanie tickled his chest lightly. "Our wedding feels like yesterday."

He gave a small chuckle and put his hand on top of hers. He kissed her cheek gently.

They had met through Collins five years ago. Mark had asked Collins if he would help him put together a dozen of his NYU students to be his crew for a film project. They would gain extra credit for the class and be on their professor's good graces for the remainder of the semester. Stephanie had been one of the volunteers, not because she was looking for extra credit, but because she had simply never been part of a film crew before. Stephanie was quiet and sweet, less abrasive than Beth and Tara, the other two girls that had joined the crew. She had an aura about her that Mark couldn't pull himself away from. He would pretend to adjust his lends or clean his camera, but he would really be zooming in on her…her porcelain skin stretched over her heart-shaped face; her eyes the luminescent golden brown of tiger's eye stones; her dark red hair like Sangria; her bee-stung lips. She was fascinating to him.

A little over a week into the project, as Mark dutifully initialed each student's extra credit slip at the end of the day, he finally plucked up the courage to ask Stephanie out for coffee. It got the ball rolling on their relationship, especially when Stephanie later revealed that she'd had a long-running crush on Mark, but was too shy to say anything beforehand.

They were married, and Mark moved into Stephanie's place in SoHo. Roger had left town within the year following Mimi's death without so much as a good-bye to Mark. He received a phone call from his friend two weeks later. Roger said he was staying with his brother Calvin in Las Vegas for a few weeks, but then was going to move on.

"Where are you going to go?" Mark asked.

"Does it matter?" Roger asked bitterly. "I'll call you." He hung up, leaving Mark stunned.

Since then, Mark had only heard from Roger once or twice a year if he was lucky. He hadn't seen him in three years. Roger didn't even attend Mark and Stephanie's wedding—he had been unreachable. Unreachable meaning, not even his brother knew where he had gone. It had become Mark's habit to call Calvin before anyone else when he needed to get in touch with Roger. More often than not, Calvin was unable to speak for the whereabouts of his brother.

Thinking about Roger made Mark think of the rest of their little family—Maureen and Joanne, who now lived on the Upper West Side with their children; and Collins, who had taken a position as the head of the philosophy department at UCLA. Thinking about them made Mark restless. When he was restless, he couldn't sleep. It wasn't the first time Stephanie had found him in front of the television at the wee hours in the morning, staring at his old films, which he had been able to transfer onto VHS tapes.

"Come to bed," Stephanie begged in a small whisper, laying her head on her husband's chest. "Please?"

"In a few minutes," Mark said as he hit rewind on the VCR remote. Stephanie hit the power button, making the screen go black, and crept her hand under Mark's undershirt, tickling his chest lightly, leaving little kisses.

"Steph," he protested.

"Please, Mark," was her response, taking his hand and placing it on her breast, moving her lips to the nape of his neck. Mark swallowed hard and closed his eyes as she continued to nuzzle and kiss. He kept the one hand on her breast while the other traveled to the small of her back.

She started to climb on top of him, continuing her kisses, and Mark tried to focus, tried to put himself in the mood and be intimate with his wife, but for some reason, the going wasn't good this time around. After a few moments, he gently pushed her off.

"I'm sorry, Steph," he said, fixing his glasses. "I…not tonight, okay?" He scrambled off the couch.

Stephanie looked hurt. "What did I do?"

"Nothing, nothing," Mark insisted. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry. I'm just…a lot on my mind and…things going on…shit I can't deal with…"

"You can't deal with making love to your wife?"

"Not tonight, Steph, alright?"

She gave him a strange gaze before huffily gathering herself up and marching back to the bedroom. Mark winced as he heard the bedroom door slam. He sat back down on the couch, took his glasses off and tried hard not to cry. Truth was, there was nothing going on that he couldn't deal with. He just was beginning to tire of his marriage. He thought Stephanie sensed it too. She was trying way too hard these days and he just wasn't trying hard enough. He wasn't sure if he wanted to try anymore.


	2. Siren on the 101

_All I hear is our song,  
I know I can't be the only one  
But you and me we are a breakthrough,  
Just forget the rearview  
Don't ever let me go.  
_Over It, "Siren on the 101"

The Dean of the Department of Humanities was a short, lean woman in her early sixties with catlike eyes and smooth, appled cheeks. She looked like someone's grandmother and this made Collins feel comfortable.

"So, Professor Collins," she said warmly, "why is it you wish to resign from UCLA?"

Collins cleared his throat and shifted in the thinly cushioned chair he sat on. "Time to go home. Back to New York."

Dean Stewart flipped through papers on her desk. "Back to NYU? Were you offered your old position back?"

Collins shook his head. "No, ma'am. I…I haven't got much time left. I'd like to spend it at home."

"Time?" Dean Stewart leaned in.

"I've been diagnosed," Collins replied, "with lymphoma. Primary effusion lymphoma to be exact. Found only in a small percentage of male AIDS patients. My doctors say that…my prognosis is poor."

Dean Stewart pursed her lips. "I'm sorry to hear that, Thomas."

"As am I, Cassandra."

There was a silence between the two educators for a moment; they contemplated each other.

"Resignation is granted. You will finish out the remainder of the semester."

Collins stood and so did the dean. They shook hands, their eyes locked.

"We'll miss you, Thomas," Dean Stewart said genuinely. "Please give my best to Luc. Will he be going with you to New York?"

"I will; and yes, he is. He's willing to make the move…for me."

"That's wonderful. Keep in touch, Thomas."

"I'll do my best. Thank you, Cassandra." Collins straightened his suit jacket and walked out of the office and out of the building, heading towards his own office. Midterms were coming up; he was sure his students had their issues, questions, concerns, blissfully unaware of the cancer cells attacking their professor's lungs.

His diagnosis had come to him last month. The month before that, his body had shut down with flu-like symptoms—a racking cough, fever and congestion in his chest and sinuses. His lover, Luc, worried to no end.

It struck Collins how ludicrous this was, as Luc dragged him to the doctor's office—Luc, who was nearly half of Collins' size, caring for him—just as he had cared for Angel so many years ago.

There was a fluid buildup around his lungs, the doctor said. They wanted to do a biopsy, to which Collins consented.

The doctor called three days after the biopsy—the test results were in, something about "positive margins"; would he please come into the office to discuss?

Collins and Luc sat in the oak-walled office in front of Dr. Tiang. The office was dimly lit; the walls were littered with diplomas in gilded frames. The doctor explained about primary effusion lymphoma—a wicked type of cancer that resisted even the most aggressive treatment and held a twenty percent survival rate. Collins held Luc's hand throughout the whole ordeal, not crying, just slowly nodding his head. There was no point in crying now.

They left the office with numbers to call about treatment centers and home hospice care, along with a whole mess of pamphlets, a sort of _What To Expect_ for cancer patients.

Soon after his diagnosis, Collins proposed to Luc that they return to New York. He wanted to spend his final months—or years, as the doctor had said he had as long as two—in New York, where he had spent the majority of his life and some of the best years. Luc consented to this and immediately began making arrangements.

Collins' first phone call was to Mark Cohen, now living in SoHo with his wife, Stephanie. They spoke at great lengths, but Collins mentioned nothing of his illness.

"I'm moving back," Collins said. "I've had enough of Los Angeles. So pretentious."

"Great!" Mark said enthusiastically. "I can't wait to see you!"

"Have you heard from Roger?"

Mark paused. "Not for awhile. He drops in and out, you know."

"I know. Well, he's due back for a visit soon. I'll see him eventually…right?"

"Right. Is Luc moving with you?"

"Sure is," Collins confirmed. "Look, when we get to New York, I'm taking us all out to dinner. You, me, Luc and Stephanie. Don't protest; I want to."

Mark laughed. "Alright, fine. I can see we've come a long way from rewiring ATM's."

"A long way. I'll call when I arrive in New York."

"Do you want me to pick you up from the airport? Help you move in?"

Collins smiled. "That'd be great. Thanks."

"I can't wait to see you," Mark repeated. "It's been too damn long."

"Agreed," he said. "Talk to you later, man."

They hung up and Collins broke down and cried.


	3. Emergency

'_Cause I've seen love die  
Way too many times  
When it deserved to be alive  
_Paramore, "Emergency"

As the July sun set over Las Vegas, turning the humid desert air crisp and cool, Roger sat in the fenced-in backyard of his younger brother Calvin's house, stretched out on a lawn chair. He wore sunglasses, even in the early twilight. His dark blonde hair, which had grown long, was pulled into a ponytail. His nephew, Will, who'd turned eight that spring, sat in his lap, playing with the rings on the silver chain around Roger's neck.

"Uncle Roger, what are these?" Will asked innocently, cocking his head.

"My rings."

"Don't rings go on your finger?" He slipped his finger into the band that had once been Mimi's. "See?"

Roger laughed. "Yeah, buddy, I see."

"How come you have two?"

"They're wedding rings." Roger felt an overwhelming sadness, but did not let his face betray his emotions. "One belonged to your aunt Mimi."

"Aunt Mimi?" Will repeated. Of course Will was too young to remember Mimi—she'd died before he formed a memory of her.

"Yeah," Roger said. "She…she died a long time ago, buddy. When you were a baby."

"Is that why I don't remember her?"

"Mm-hmm," Roger responded. "She knew you, though, before she died. Your parents came to visit us in New York after you were born and she adored you." He recalled Mimi sitting on the floor of the loft, cuddling infant Will, her face lit up like the tree in Rockefeller Center at Christmas.

"She did?"

"She did. She wanted to see you grow up very badly."

"Oh. She still can, right? She sees me from Heaven."

Roger didn't know what to say. The innocence of a child had struck him dumb for several seconds. "That's right, kiddo. She sees you from Heaven. Like an angel."

Will smiled brightly. "_I_ have an _angel_?"

"Yeah, of course you do."

"Do you have one, Uncle Roger?"

"Sure I do. He watches over me like your aunt Mimi watches over you." _An angel of the first degree..._

Roger's sister-in-law, Layla, with her newborn daughter on her shoulder, came out to the yard. "There you are," she said to her son. "Time to come inside, Will. You need a bath before you go to bed."

Will pouted. "Few more minutes?"

"Come on, the bugs will be out soon and I don't want you to get eaten alive," she admonished.

Roger gave his nephew a nudge. "It's alright, buddy. We'll chill tomorrow, okay? Go inside."

Sighing, the boy slid off his uncle's lap and trudged into the house. Roger stood and stretched his back, yawning.

"Thanks," Layla said with a small laugh. "Could you take the baby for a few minutes while I run the bath?"

"Sure," Roger said with a small smile. Layla took the cloth diaper off her shoulder and placed it on his before lowering the baby into his outstretched arms. Sarah Charlotte Davis, two weeks old. His new niece. He knew that he and Mimi would never have had children, so his niece and nephew were a blessing to him.

He followed Layla into the condo, closing the sliding glass door behind him. Cal, Roger's brother, was sitting on the living room couch beside Will, watching some cartoon show. The living room still contained a small collection of baskets and flower arrangements with balloons attached announcing _Congratulations_ and _It's a Girl!_

"William, get into the bathroom," Layla commanded.

"Just a _minute_!" the boy protested.

"Hey," Cal said, glancing at his son, "you didn't tell me you were supposed to be taking a bath. Get your butt in there."

Will giggled and scurried off the couch as Layla ushered him away. Roger laughed and took Will's place beside Cal, still cradling baby Sarah.

"He's got a lot of energy," Roger remarked.

"Mmm," Cal replied affirmatively.

"A lot like a certain someone I remember."

"I don't think I was that hyperactive!"

"I remember you pouncing on me like I was a giant beanbag," Roger recalled as Cal chuckled at the memory.

There was a five year age gap between Roger and his younger brother. They grew up close, but once Roger moved to the East Village with Mark Cohen after high school, his relationship with Cal suffered, even more so once he got heavily into drugs. When Roger married Mimi the year before Will was born, the brothers reunited and remained close.

In terms of looks, the Davis brothers were on opposite ends of the spectrum. Cal was dark-haired and clean shaven, contrasting with Roger's blonde fairness. However, they both had bright green eyes and cleft chins, and both were gifted artistically—Roger on the guitar and Cal with ink and paper.

Sarah began to fuss and Roger glanced down at the newborn with a smile. "Hey, what's the matter…"

Cal shifted to peer at the baby in Roger's arms. "She's making sure we don't forget about her," he replied.

"Who can forget about her?" Roger shifted the baby in his arms, cooing gently to her.

"Damn, Roger. I didn't think I'd ever live to see the day you melt over a baby."

"Neither did I," Roger agreed. And it was true. Sometime between losing Angel and losing Mimi, Roger had been filled with a newfound appreciation for life. Even now, that Mimi was gone, Roger had a deeper understanding of how beautiful and precious everything around him was.

The phone rang and Cal and Roger gave each other incredulous looks.

"You expecting a call?" Cal asked.

"No…no one knows I'm here."

"Think again," Cal replied, getting off the couch. "Mark Cohen calls here looking for you every so often."

"Does he?"

"Calvin!" Layla's voice came from the bathroom. "Get the phone!"

"Got it!" Cal responded, picking up the receiver of the portable phone, tucking it between his shoulder and his ear. "Hello?"

Sarah suddenly began to cry, trying to kick free of the blankets swaddled around her. Roger tried to soothe her and listen to Cal's end of the conversation at the same time. A few moments later, Cal nudged Roger's shoulder with the portable phone. "For you."

"For me?" Roger repeated. "Here…take her."

"Trade you phone for baby," Cal joked, scooping the wailing baby out of Roger's arms and handing Roger the phone.

As Cal left the room cradling Sarah, Roger spoke into the receiver, "Hello?"

"Roger! Wow, you're there!"

"Mark? We were just talking about you."

"Were you? Why? Never mind, not important. Look, I called for a reason," Mark said hurriedly. "Collins is back. He's moving back to New York."

"Wow. Really? He left California? I thought he was out there for good."

"Apparently not, but he asked me to get into contact with you. I wasn't sure how else to get in touch with you, so I called Cal to see if he knew."

"Is that why you call here?"

"Oh…yeah, sometimes. Just to, you know, see if you've settled anywhere."

"So, what are you saying here, Mark, that you want me to come back to New York?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah. But not for me. For Collins."

Roger bit his lip. "I don't know if I can do that."

"Why not?"

"I haven't been in New York since…since…" He couldn't continue.

"Since Mimi died," Mark finished for him. "Look, we're not asking you to stay for long. A week at most. You can sleep on the couch at my place."

Roger paused for a long while. "I don't want to impose."

"You're not."

"I'll have to drive there…I can't leave my car here and I don't have the money to fly. It'll take me a few days."

"That's okay."

Another long pause. "I can be there in a week or so. Give or take."

"That's cool," Mark said. "I can't wait to see you. It's kind of exciting, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"Call me when you get in, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll do that."

"Great. Later, then."

"Later." Roger hung up and sighed. He hadn't been back to New York since Mimi died—nearly seven years. This was going to be tough for him…but how many times had Collins been there when he was needed? The least he could do was show up, make an appearance, greet his old friend.

He decided to leave the next morning.


	4. One Headlight

_I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else  
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same  
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams  
I think her death, it must be killin' me  
_The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"

Late the next morning, Roger packed up his belongings in his old VW bus and began his journey to New York. He had a hard time separating himself from Will, who tearfully clung to him when he tried to leave the house.

"Hey," Roger said gently, picking up his nephew. "I'll be back, you know I will."

"Who will play with me?" Will asked, pouting. During his week-long stay, Roger had taken Will to the nearby park every day to play catch, aiding in Will's growing obsession with baseball.

"You have a dad, you know," Roger reminded him, chuckling. He tousled Will's dark hair. He was an exact miniature of his father.

"I'll miss _you_!"

All Roger could do was laugh. He knew that if he didn't laugh, he'd cry just as hard as the eight year old that was clasped onto him. "I'll be back…I'll be back," he kept repeating.

He received hugs and kisses from Layla and Cal and planted a tiny kiss on baby Sarah's pudgy cheek. Layla wouldn't let him leave without taking food, which she placed in the small cooler that he always kept in the back of the VW bus. As a going-away present, Cal threw in a bottle of Smirnoff, which Roger tried to refuse.

"I know you're used to Stoli," Cal joked, "but it's all I could get my hands on. Just take it as a gift, Roger. Please."

The two brothers embraced for a long while before Roger climbed into the front seat of the bus and started it up. He had over twenty-five hundred miles and almost forty hours of driving to put behind him. It was going to leave him with a long time to think.

He bid farewell to Sin City as he watched the Strip disappear in his rearview mirror. He slipped onto I-515, which took him through Reno, then made his way to I-15 towards Salt Lake City. There was a long stretch of highway in front of him…he let his mind wander…

_SEVEN YEARS EARLIER—  
_The heart monitor emitted a slow, monotone beep that rang in Roger's ears. His mouth went completely dry. The lean, dark haired doctor in wire-rimmed glasses that held the defibrillator paddles turned to the nurse over his shoulder. "Call it," he ordered.

"Time of death: nineteen oh-two," the nurse responded.

The other doctor, a short blonde woman, who had been performing CPR on Mimi, now removed the oxygen mask from her face.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davis," said the first doctor. "She's gone."

Roger clenched his fists. "No!" he insisted. "S-she can't!"

"We've been trying to bring her back for twenty minutes. She has no heartbeat. I'm sorry." He began to put the defibrillator away.

"No!" Roger roared. He punched the wall closest to him with a surprising amount of force before sliding to the floor, burying his face in his hands. He sobbed fiercely. "Mimi, _no_…"

The blonde female doctor approached him. "I'm sorry. We did all we could."

Roger looked up at her, revealing his tear-stained face. "Did you?" he asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

The doctor was slightly jarred by this question. She was only a second-year resident, still new to dealing with patients and their families. The patient in question, Lucia "Mimi" Davis, had AIDS-related pneumonia. Her body was too weak to resist the illness. They'd pumped her full of antibiotics and kept her hydrated in hopes of helping her fight, but she slipped away anyway. Her husband, this man Roger, who kept a constant vigil over her, noticed that her breathing was shallow and her heart rate was slowing down, and pressed her call button. They performed a tracheal intubation and performed CPR. When her heart stopped, they tried to revive her. "Yes, Mr. Davis," the doctor replied, sincerely. "We did everything we could for your wife. I'm sorry. Again."

Roger stared at her, hard. "Sorry won't bring her back."

The male doctor removed his rubber gloves. "Is there anyone you want to call? Her family?"

"Her mother," Roger replied, nearly choking on his own voice.

"There's a phone in the hallway. I'll tell my staff to leave the body."

The body. That's all she was now—a body. Roger just nodded. The team of doctors and nurses turned off all of the machines that had been keeping Mimi alive for the past two weeks, and left the room. His ears still rang with the beep of the heart monitor.

Roger approached Mimi's body slowly. She was lying so still, so peacefully. E reached out and stroked her hair, then leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Her let himself cry, openly, as he held Mimi in his arms. He cried every tear he'd ever held back over the years. He cried for the times they'd had together, the time they should have had together, the time they were never going to have. She was…gone.

After Roger had cried until there were no tears left, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and went to the phone in the hallway. He dialed the first number that came to mind.

"Speeeeeeeak," said the answering machine.

"Mark, it's Roger," he said tearfully. "Sh-she's gone. Mimi's gone."

* * *

Mimi's body was handed over to her mother, and buried with her family. Mimi, unlike Angel, had not been disowned by her family due to her illness, so the attendance of her funeral was slightly larger. 

Roger moved mechanically throughout the whole ordeal. He didn't speak; barely made eye contact with anyone. He was unresponsive to kind words and hugs, even from Collins, Mark, Maureen and Joanne. Not even Calvin, who had flown in from Las Vegas to be beside his brother, could snap him out of this malaise.

Benny showed up, without Alison; a blonde bombshell on his arm instead whom he introduced as Corrine. He gave no explanation as to where Alison was. Nor did he offer Roger a hug—there was still mild friction between the two men, having both loved Mimi. He did, however, offer his hand in condolence. When Roger accepted this, along with a friendly pat on the back, a silent truce fell between them. Mark, who'd been quietly observing this confrontation, breathed a small sigh of relief.

Again, Mimi's funeral was a bit more elaborate than Angel's had been: flower arrangements everywhere, with food served afterwards at Mimi's mother's house, cooked by the women of the Marquez family. The thing keeping Roger there was Mark—he wouldn't let him leave. Roger knew how strong Mark could be: it was Mark that had gotten him through his own withdrawal and received only a black eye in return.

"You need to stay here and be strong for Mimi," Mark said firmly, practically pushing Roger down into a chair.

"Mimi's dead," Roger shot back, coldly.

"If she could see you now," Mark continued in retort, "she'd be shaking her head at you. You're here for _her_; make her proud."

Mark annoyed Roger sometimes, as annoying as best friends go. Unfortunately, Roger knew he was right. He hated it when Mark was right.

After all was said and done, Jacinta Marquez, Mimi's mother, asked Roger if he'd like to keep any of Mimi's personal belongings. He selected her hairbrush, a few decorative hair combs, a few items of clothes and several pieces of her jewelry. From that day forward, he wore her wedding band suspended alongside his from a chain around his neck.

Soon after Mimi's burial, Roger fled. He was itchy; he couldn't stay in New York. It was the first time Roger had lost someone he really loved and he didn't know how to deal with it. He now knew the pain Collins felt when Angel had passed—a searing, white hot pain in the center of his chest.

He tried to go to Life Support alongside Collins, but the pair eventually stopped going once Collins took the position at UCLA. This struck more fear into Roger until he hit rock bottom.

He drank. Heavily. He had traded one vice for another. Mark became increasingly disgusted with him and it turned into many a fight. Finally, Roger couldn't take it anymore. He disappeared in the middle of the night, packing up everything he owned, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Roger had used the last of his savings to purchase a plane ticket to Las Vegas, where he shacked up with Cal, Layla and Will (who was less than a year old at this time). He explained this to Mark when he called him two days later.

He slept on Cal and Layla's living room couch for three weeks. He didn't drink. He didn't watch television. He didn't play his guitar. Cal tried his best once more to snap Roger out of it, but with a baby to look after and working forty hours a week, he gave up very easily on trying to entertain his grief-stricken brother. Until one day, Layla begged her husband to "do something" about his brother. Cal's "something" was to kindly kick him out.

Thus Roger became a drifter. In the Volkswagen—which had seen better days—he wandered from place to place, playing gig after gig, where he could get one. He slept in the bus, ate only when he was hungry, took his AZT like a good boy. Every few months or so, he would return to Las Vegas for a week or two before heading out on the road again. It was a miracle that the Volkswagen survived so long.

In this bus now, Roger continued to drive. First along I-15, then it had become I-76 and, eventually, I-80. He passed a sign: _Now Entering Nebraska_. He smiled sadly to himself. He'd driven for fifteen hours straight.


	5. Life Is A Highway

_Through all these cities and all these towns  
It's in my blood and it's all around  
I love you now like I loved you then  
This is the road and these are the hands  
_Tom Cochrane, "Life is a Highway"

The Volkswagen bus puttered off the next exit Roger could spot on the interstate. Within fifty miles, he found a roadside motel. It was more like a roach motel, a seedy dump. At the front desk, he was greeted by a palsied old man who resented the fact he was being pulled away from his TV dinner and a re-run of _Cheers _to check in a guest. He only pressed the key into Roger's hand after Roger paid his fifty dollars. The key was attached to a wooden keychain with the motel's name on one side and the number twenty-two carved into the other.

When Roger opened the door to the room, he nearly closed it back up again. It was a seedy dump, but it was a bed to sleep in nonetheless. Beggars couldn't be choosers, especially on a budget. The walls must have been white, but they were now faded to a dirty, dingy gray. The carpet was olive green…or brown, he wasn't quite sure. The black and white television was chained to the wall, perched upon the dresser, a thrift-store reject, which sat below a large, cracked mirror. _Seven years bad luck, _Roger thought with a smirk. _But then again…it can't get any unluckier than this_.

Using his duffel bag as a pillow, Roger slept in his clothes and on top of the gaudy orange, brown and beige comforter. He was pretty sure there were bloodstains on the ceiling. In the room next to him, he could hear muttered voices in foreign accents along with the clacking of dice. Twelve hours later, when he awoke, he showered and changed, grabbed breakfast at a Seven-Eleven, then drove another eleven hours.

When he stopped to rest once more in Illinois, he managed to find a perfectly clean and decent B&B just outside of Chicago. He befriended the owner of the family-run inn, an elderly African-American gentleman with no teeth named Awl, who played a mean steel guitar. Awl was eager to talk music with Roger, listening patiently as Roger practically told him his life story—about his mild success with the Well Hungarians and his drug abuse, all the way up to Mimi's death and his avoidance of New York City for the past seven years. Awl in turn told Roger about growing up in rural Illinois, pursuing his love of music (despite his mother's wishes), living through the Great Depression and ending up playing the Chicago blues alongside some of the best in the business: Muddy Waters, Robert Lockwood Jr., Little Walter.

A jam session ensued after dinner, much to the delight of the dozen other guests who were staying there, consisting of Awl, Roger, and Awl's great-grandson on the bongos. Roger departed the B&B late the following afternoon, but not without a care package from Awl's daughter-in-law, who insisted on feeding him. The food wound up in the cooler alongside the untouched bottle of Smirnoff Cal had given him, only to be eaten halfway through his journey.

In Pennsylvania, after another eleven hours of driving, Roger could not find a close enough hotel, and instead pulled the bus into the rear parking lot of a Wal-Mart and slept there, hoping he wouldn't be ticketed for loitering. It had happened before. He covered himself over with a Mexican smoking blanket and rested his head on a pillow he always kept handy. He fell asleep quickly, trying to ignore the chilly night air that was creeping in.

When he awoke in the morning, he discovered, thankfully, he wasn't ticketed as he slept. He freshened up and changed his clothes in the Wal-Mart bathroom, purchased a large cup of coffee and took it on the road with him, drinking it black.

At last, four hours later, Roger spotted the _Welcome to New York_ sign. A thin coil in his chest pulled tight. When he finally dove into the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged in the city that never sleeps, he nearly wept.

He honestly was not prepared for the overwhelming joy and sadness and terror that swept through him as he drove towards his old stomping ground in the East Village. He wasn't completely sure why—he knew none of the old gang was around anymore. He just wanted to see it.

There it was. That damned old music factory that had been his home and prison for nearly a decade. He parked the Volkswagen at the curb, got out and stretched. He then leaned up against the bus and lit a cigarette, staring up at the building.

"Hey! Hey, you!" called a voice, heavily accented.

Roger turned in the direction of the voice, coming from the first fire escape. A short, rail-thin Latino man was shouting down at him. "You talkin' to me?"

"You try'na get a place here, man? You talk to Papi, he get you a place."

"No, man, I'm not here to—"

"Papi take care-a you, man. You talk to Papi."

"I'm not here for a place," Roger insisted. "I used to live here. Top floor."

"Top floor?" the man repeated. "That's the Litter Box up there, man. Papi loves having the Litter Box up there."

"Litter Box?" Roger repeated, his lips curled around his cigarette.

"Five or six of them living in there. Sex kittens. Hot pussy. Cathouse. Papi loves the Litter Box. I keep telling him to put a revolving door up there."

Roger couldn't help but laugh. His old loft was now a low-grade brothel. He wondered if Mark knew. He finished his cigarette and threw it on the sidewalk, grinding it out with the heel of his hiking boot. He went across the street and saw that the old payphone still stood and, surprisingly, was still connected. He fished quarters out of his pocket and slid them into the coin slot, then dialed Mark's number.

"_Hi, you've reached Stephanie and Mark Cohen_," said the perky female voice on the answering machine. Roger then realized he had never heard Stephanie's voice before. "_We'd really like to talk to you, but we can't right now. So please leave your name and number and a message. We'll get back to you as soon as we can—promise!_"

"Hey, Mark. It's Roger," he said into the phone. "I'm in town and—"

"Roger?!" Mark exclaimed, sounding breathless.

"You're still screening your calls, you loser?" Roger teased.

"No, no, I was—wait, loser? Never mind. I was in my production room doing some work. All the computers and equiptment I have in there, it makes it tough to hear the phone. So, what were you saying before I picked up?"

"I'm in town."

"Oh, you're here? Already? That's terrific! Where are you?"

"I'm in front of the old building, actually. I just got in a few hours ago."

"Well…do you want to meet somewhere? You, me and Collins? For lunch?"

"Sure. Where at?"

"There's a place on Sixth called the Moondance Diner. You can't miss it; the sign is huge."

Roger chuckled. "I'll manage." He paused. "I can't wait to see you, man."

"You, too," Mark replied. Roger could practically hear his friend's smile over the phone. "Half an hour?"

"Half an hour," Roger agreed. "Bye."

"Good-bye."

They hung up. Roger lit another cigarette and leaned against the phone booth, a close eye on his VW bus. He wondered what it would be like to see Mark and Collins after seven years. The coil in his chest pulled tighter in anticipation. Did they change? Would they notice that he had changed?

With the cigarette dangling from his lips, he climbed back into the VW bus, but not before the Latino man called down to him once more—"I'll tell Papi you was interested!"

"I'm not interested," Roger replied. "I'm just…passing though."


	6. Declaration

_Dive under the water  
__I'd rather drown than risk the flames  
__I'm crossing, I'm counting  
__I'm coming clean  
_Roots of Rebellion, "Declaration"

Roger hugged a mug of coffee in his booth at the Moondance Diner, awaiting the arrival of Mark and Collins. He kept his head low, but he wasn't sure why—nobody knew him here; it'd been so many years since he'd been back in New York, and he looked different, with his hair much longer and the thick stubble dusted over his cheeks and chin.

Mark and Collins walked in together, their voices hushed but light. Once Roger spotted them, he stood, his hands in his pockets, and waited for them to see him.

"Roger," Mark greeted warmly, wrapping his old friend in a hug. Roger accepted the hug, holding Mark firmly and giving him a hearty pat on the back. He moved onto Collins next, greeting him with just as much gusto. As he hugged the gentle giant, however, he couldn't help but notice that he felt much thinner.

The three men sat in the booth in silence for a short while, with Roger facing his two old friends, after the waitress offered them coffee—both Mark and Collins accepted and Roger requested a refill.

"So, where have you been?" Mark asked of Roger.

Roger took a deep swallow of coffee before answering. "Before Vegas? Austin. Dallas. Went back to Santa Fe for a spell." Mark was surprised as to how gravelly Roger's voice sounded, ravaged by years of cigarette smoking and playing gigs. "I always go back to Santa Fe."

"Feels like home, doesn't it?" Collins smiled fondly.

"In a way," Roger agreed.

Mark cleared his throat. "Will you ever consider staying in New York again?" Roger bit his lip, but Mark prattled on. "Steph and I wouldn't mind if you stayed with us. We have an extra bedroom, you know."

Roger shook his head. "Nah. I couldn't impose on the newlyweds."

"We're not so new anymore," Mark said softly. "I'm sure she couldn't mind."

"I would."

Collins cleared his throat and both Mark and Roger looked at him, expecting him to say something. Collins just shook his head and reached for his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. After he coughed into it several times into it, he apologized. "Sorry. Just a tickle in my throat."

"That was more than a tickle," Roger commented.

Mark set his mouth in a firm line. "Are you alright, Collins?"

"Fine," was his simple quick response. He replaced the handkerchief.

Mark and Roger gave each other a knowing look. He wasn't fine. For Collins, a simple cold could turn into a death sentence.

"It's the change in the weather," Collins explained further. "I'm readjusting from California to New York again."

"Bullshit," Roger said suddenly. "It's been seven years since I've been in New York and I haven't been coughing like I'm hacking up a lung."

Collins' face fell. Roger had called him out.

"Collins," Mark said, slowly and seriously. "Are you sick?"

"Of course I'm sick," Collins said quickly.

"You know what I mean. Please, Collins, tell the truth."

Collins glanced from Mark to Roger, to back at Mark again before staring down into his coffee cup. "It's cancer," he admitted finally.

Roger swallowed hard, feeling his throat close up. Mark, however, remained steady. "Go on," he urged.

"It's a type of lymphoma," Collins explained. At first, his words were stiff and cold, almost unwilling to come out of his mouth. But the more he spoke, the easier they flowed. "It's rare, my doctor said. Aggressive, usually unresponsive to chemo. It causes a fluid buildup around the lungs—or, in my case, it does. It's why I've been coughing. At first, I thought it was the flu…but a biopsy proved otherwise." When Collins was done, another coughing fit ensued. Mark offered him a glass of water, which he took. "Sorry," he whispered when he was done.

A cold silence settled over the diner table. What was there to say? What could they, Mark and Roger, say to make the situation brighter? Collins had recognized his fatality already; it was now their turn.

"How long?" Roger asked after what seemed like several minutes.

"The doctor said six months to two years."

"How is Luc taking it?" Mark asked.

"Surprisingly well," Collins replied. Another pause. "It feels so strange…having someone else be the caretaker. That whole time I held Angel's hand—" he cut himself off, promising himself he would not cry.

Mark put his hand over Collins' and gave a friendly squeeze while patting him on the shoulder, a small gesture of comfort. Roger reached out and put his hand over Mark's, which was covered in turn by Collins' other hand.

"So that's why you moved back to New York," Roger said. Collins just nodded.

All of a sudden, Roger was filled with inner conflict. One of his best friends was dying…but he couldn't stay, not in New York. He didn't want to. He'd seen both Angel and Mimi die from this disease, the same disease that rampaged through his own body; the same disease that was killing his friend. He didn't want to stay and watch someone else die…but how could he abandon Collins?

"I'm going to call Stephanie," Mark said, "and let her know you'll be staying with us, Roger."

"No, it's okay," Roger protested. "I'll…check into a hotel. I don't want to impose on you and Stephanie."

"You're not imposing."

Roger felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. He couldn't stay under Mark's roof, not again. "I'll find something," he assured his friends.

Collins almost offered to put Roger up at his and Luc's place, but stopped himself. Roger didn't need to be reminded about what his fate might be. "Okay," Collins relented. "Just…don't be afraid to ask for something, anything, from any of us."

"I should be saying that to you."

"Don't worry about me. I'm getting exactly what I want out of this," Collins said with a very small smile. "This is the way it should be, surrounded by my family."

Roger gave a slow nod. "Right." He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.


	7. Suddenly I See

_And everything around her is a silver pool of light  
The people who surround her feel the benefit of it  
It makes you calm  
She holds you captivated in her palm  
_KT Tunstall, "Suddenly I See"

_  
"Hi, you've reached the Johnson-Jefferson residence! We've got our hands full, can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as we can! Thanks!"_

_Beep. _

"Hey, Maureen, Joanne. It's Mark. I, uh, I don't quite know how to say this over the phone, let alone on an answering machine message, so if you could—"

Joanne caught the phone just before Mark decided to hang up. She hurried over to the phone in her high heeled boots. She picked up with a breathless, "Hello?"

"Joanne," Mark said, with a relieved sigh. "Hi. I didn't think I'd get you."

"You almost didn't. Maureen and I are getting ready to take the kids to my parents'," Joanne said. "We're having a hell of a time trying to make Hunter stand still long enough to put on clothes." Mark chuckled. "What's going on? You sounded so strange in your message."

Maureen entered the living room, cradling her two-year-old daughter Nina on her shoulder. "Who's it?" she whispered.

"Mark," Joanne mouthed as Mark continued to speak on the other line.

"Well," Mark sighed, "I'm just calling to let you guys know: Collins is back."

"He is?" Joanne asked and shot Maureen a surprised look, complete with a raised eyebrow. "Collins is back," she whispered for her benefit.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Maureen's standing right here. Should I put her on, too?"

"Oh. If you want to."

Joanne rolled her eyes. Mark had terrible phone etiquette, always had. She put him on speakerphone. "Okay, Mark, you're on speaker. Tell the world."

He paused. "Hey, Maureen."

"Hi!" Maureen said cheerfully, hoisting Nina up on her hip. The toddler was busily sucking her thumb, which Maureen gently removed.

He cleared his throat. "Well, like I told Joanne…Collins is back. He…he's sick."

"Sick?" Maureen repeated, giving a worried look at Joanne.

"He's got an aggressive type of lymphoma," Mark explained, "found typically in AIDS patients, especially men. He and Luc have moved back to the area. Collins wants to be in New York when he…when he goes."

"When he _goes_?"

"Maureen, are you just going to repeat everything I say? Yes, when he goes. His prognosis isn't good; it could be as little as six months."

Joanne swallowed hard as her stomach turned, hoping she wouldn't vomit. She put a hand to her heart. "Where are they staying?"

"In Chelsea," Mark replied.

"Oh. Not far, then," Joanne said, somewhat happily.

"Roger's back too."

"No!" Maureen exclaimed. "You got a hold of Roger?"

"More like Roger got a hold of us. _You_ know how he is."

Joanne and Maureen gave each other a knowing look. Roger and his fight-or-flight response. "So," Joanne said, "what about Roger?"

"What _about_ Roger?"

"Where he's staying."

"He won't say. I offered him the spare bedroom at our place here, but he outright refused. It's been a week since he's been back."

Hunter Johnson-Jefferson, five years old, ran into the room and tugged Joanne's pant leg. "Mama, are we going yet?"

"In a minute, baby," Joanne whispered over her shoulder.

"But I'm _hungry_!"

"Hey," Maureen took Hunter by the hand, "come on, I'll get you something to eat before we leave." She led the boy to the kitchen, leaving Joanne on the phone still with Mark.

"Sorry," Joanne apologized to him. "Hunter's getting impatient."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know your guys were on your way out," Mark said apologetically.

"Don't worry about it," she assured. "I'm glad I know now." She took Mark off of speaker phone and tucked the receiver between her ear and shoulder as she sat on the couch, crossing her legs as she played with the heel of her boot.

"So, they're here," Mark continued, "in New York. Everyone. We're all back."

_All. Excluding Mimi and Angel, of course. _"That's great. It's been way too long. Since your wedding, I think."

"No, Roger wasn't there, remember? Collins had to be my best man."

"Yeah, I remember. That was right before he went to UCLA, right?"

"It was."

A comfortable silence settled over the phone. Joanne and Mark had found a comfortable niche with each other as friends and colleagues.

"How are the kids?" Mark asked.

"Fine, just fine. Nina is talking now; we can't seem to get her to shut up. She's definitely Maureen's daughter. When are you and Steph going to have kids?"

Mark groaned. "Don't ask. First her parents, then mine, now you? Why is there a need to…reproduce? Why can't we just…be _married_?"

"Biological necessity? A psychology professor of mine once said that the meaning of life was to do it again, passing your genes onto the next generation."

"I guess," Mark sighed. "I don't know."

Joanne just chuckled. "It may seem like a scary concept now, but trust me—it's worth it in the end."

"Joanne!" Maureen's voice called from the kitchen. "We have to go!"

"Oh," Joanne said into the phone, "Mark, I've got to go. Call later, okay? We need to catch up."

"Okay," Mark said after a pause, glad that he and Joanne had managed to remain friends. "I'll talk to you later, then."

"Later," Joanne agreed.

* * *

In the past ten years, Maureen and Joanne's relationship had its share of turbulence. They ran hot and cold, breaking up twice more: once due to Maureen's infidelity and once because of Joanne's inattention and dominance. But once Joanne managed to coax Maureen into couples' therapy—for Joanne really did love Maureen and wanted so badly for this relationship to work—things were going more smoothly. Five years ago, they made the decision to start a family. Joanne hoped that a baby might calm Maureen down a bit. Using a sperm donor, Joanne conceived their first child, Hunter. Maureen volunteered to carry a second child, using the same donor, so that their children would at least be half-siblings. Their daughter Nina was born three years later. 

Now, the Johnson-Jefferson family was happy, healthy and stable. Joanne started her own law firm, specializing in civil rights and representing several gay and lesbian couples and families throughout Manhattan. Maureen was a drama instructor and had recently begun directing small theater productions.

Later that night, after they returned from the Jeffersons', insomnia struck both Maureen and Joanne simultaneously. They sat up in bed—Joanne, engrossed in a novel, and Maureen with a legal pad and a copy of _Six Characters in Search of an Author_, her latest venture.

Joanne finally broke the silence. "So," she said, keeping her voice low. "Collins."

"Collins," Maureen repeated with a small sigh. She looked up, brushing a few stray dark curls out of her eyes. "I guess it was only a matter of time."

"Maureen, that's so morbid," Joanne marked her place in her book with a postcard from Bali.

"It's true," Maureen said gently. "I know it's morbid, but it's true. I'm not being insensitive or anything."

"It sounds like you are."

"But that's how this disease works. It's an insensitive disease. No one knew that Angel was going to go as fast as he did. And Mimi—well, Mimi was never really very healthy to begin with, was she? She never got over that cold she had, and that turned into the pneumonia that killed her. No one knows why Collins got this cancer, and we never will. I'm sad, alright? I'm so unbelievably upset that I can barely function. It's killing me inside. It's no different from when Mimi and Angel died. I'm just looking at this from another angle. I'm dealing with this in my own way. Can you let me do that?"

Joanne was silenced for a minute. Maureen had her own reactions to certain situations, different ways of dealing with different emotions. When her father died, she only took solace in repainting the entire apartment—twice. Joanne had slowly learned how to gauge Maureen and her mood swings, but every so often she would judge incorrectly, and it would turn into a fight. Now, Joanne could sense a fight with Maureen like animals could sense impending bad weather.

"Fine, baby," Joanne replied. "I get it."

"Thank you." Maureen went back to her play, making pencil marks in the margins for blocking. Joanne could no longer concentrate on her book.

"I'm going to go make some tea," she threw the covers off her legs. "Do you want some?" Maureen shook her head, her brow crinkled as she tapped the pencil's eraser against her chin.

Joanne headed to the kitchen, returning five minutes later with a steaming mug in her hands. She placed it on the night table before getting back into bed. "What about Roger?" she asked, taking the mug back into her hands and sitting cross-legged.

"Yeah. Roger. How about that."

"I wonder how long he's here for," Joanne mused. "He must be miserable here. He swore when Mimi died that he'd never come back. Do you think he'll stay until Collins—"

"I don't know," Maureen looked up once more. "You can't tell with Roger anymore. He's such an enigma now."

"Wonder where he'd been all these years."

"Las Vegas," Maureen replied, very matter-of-fact, "with his brother."

"Roger has a brother?"

"A brother, a sister-in-law and a nephew, apparently. Mark told me. Roger doesn't talk about his family much. He won't talk to his mother, even when he was living here. He and his brother are close, kind of. I think I met him once." Maureen made one final note in her play, marked her place with a Post-It note and closed its covers, yawning. "I'm starting to get bleary-eyed. I think it's time for me to turn in."

"I might stay up for a bit more," Joanne replied. "Do you want me to turn out the light? I can go into the kitchen or the living room."

"No, it's okay," Maureen piled up her legal pad and books and dropped them on the floor, where they landed on the carpet with a soft thud. She clicked off the bedside table lamp and kissed Joanne. "Goodnight, baby. Love you."

"Love you, too. Goodnight."

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the end of this chapter ... I didn't know where else to go with this. The next one will be better, I promise. 


	8. All Over You

_Our love is like water,  
Pinned down and abused for being strange.  
Our love is no other,  
Than me alone for me all day  
_Live, "All Over You"

Luc Thibodeaux was raised in the bayous of Louisiana and if it was one thing he knew how to do right, it was host a party with good food and entertainment. His mama had taught him how to cook the finest Cajun cuisine. The phrase he most frequently uttered was _laissez les bon temps roule_—or, "let the good times roll", which he spoke in a Southern accent as thick as the chicory coffee his grand-mère used to make, with just a hint of the Cajun _patois_ sneaking through.

Back home in Sansonnet, Luc would have been considered "the pick of the litter"—it was a shame that he had no interest in girls. He had a lean, athletic body. His hair was light brown and his eyes were deep blue. He met Tom Collins on the UCLA campus. Luc was a graduate student at the time and was taking one of Collins' classes. He stayed after class to ask the professor a few questions—one of which was, "Will you join me for some coffee?"

Collins and Luc hit it off right away. There was an instant connection. Collins ended up spilling to Luc his relationship with Angel, while Luc listened intently, patiently. When Collins was done, Luc gave him a gentle hand squeeze and said nothing. He was beyond words, apologies and advice. Collins knew, somehow, that he'd finally found someone who understood.

When Collins proposed that he and Luc return to New York after he got his diagnosis, Luc agreed without a moment's hesitation. He had always wanted to go to New York—it was a shame that it was under these circumstances.

They sublet an apartment in Chelsea and, as soon as they were unpacked and settled in, Luc threw a housewarming party. He nearly destroyed the kitchen, cooking up a storm. He broke out recipes for crawfish etoufée, gumbo, potato salad, dirty rice and cornbread—all the makings of a traditional Cajun dinner. Collins joked that they might as well set up propane cookers in the middle of the street, referring to the crawfish boil they had attended when Luc brought Collins to Louisiana for spring break one year.

"Baby," Collins said affectionately, watching Luc in the kitchen as he buttoned up his shirt, "you don't have to do this. They won't care if you serve them Cajun cuisine or MacDonald's."

"_Cher_, I wouldn't dream of serving your friends anything _less_ than authentic cuisine!" Luc insisted as he slid the etoufée into the oven.

Collins just chuckled and shook his head as he went to the bedroom to finish getting dressed.

Luc was still putting the finishing touches on his dishes when their doorbell rang. Collins, who had been resting on the couch with a glass of Beaujolais, got up to answer it. He beamed when he saw Mark and Stephanie standing there.

"Hey, guys," he greeted warmly, hugging Mark and kissing Stephanie on the cheek. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss out on it for the world," Mark replied as they stepped into the apartment. "Where's Luc?"

"In the kitchen. He thinks he's Julia Child."

"Excuse me!" Luc replied haughtily. "I prefer Rachel Ray."

Collins rolled his eyes. "I hate Rachel Ray."

"She doesn't like you either."

Stephanie chuckled. "Well, whatever you're making, Luc, it smells wonderful." She went into the kitchen to kiss his cheek.

"My _maman's_ crawfish etoufée," he said with a smile. "So much good seasoning, make your eyes water."

"My kind of dish!"

"Mark," Collins said, "you want a drink? I have Beaujolais, or some Zinfindel..."

"Whatever you're drinking is fine by me," Mark replied. "Steph? Anything for you?"

"No, thanks. I'm good," Stephanie smiled. "I'm going to help Luc in the kitchen."

Mark followed Collins into the living room where there was a mini bar set up. Collins poured Mark a glass of Beaujolais and handed it to him. "I don't think I've ever seen Stephanie refuse a glass of wine. Something up?" Collins inquired in a low voice, and wiggled his eyebrows.

"No, not that I know of," Mark said with a small frown.

"Maybe she's pregnant."

"That's not the case," Mark said quickly. So quickly, that Collins gave him an odd look. "I mean…it's probably not the case. I don't think that's it."

Collins sighed. "Okay, then." He hoped he wasn't the only one wondering why Stephanie and Mark didn't have kids yet. He didn't want to be intrusive, but he felt some kind of responsibility for their relationship, considering that he had gotten them together, sort of.

As Luc was setting up the food buffet-style in the kitchen, another knock on the door heralded the arrival of Joanne and Maureen, with their kids in tow. As soon as she walked in the door, Maureen pounced on Collins, smothering his face with kisses, much to Collins' delight. Their laughter mingled and rose as they greeted each other. Once everyone managed to get inside the apartment, Collins introduced Luc to Maureen and Joanne, who in turn introduced Luc and Collins to Hunter and Nina.

"Oh my God, look how _big_ they've gotten!" Collins exclaimed, who, up until this point, had only seen pictures through his email.

"You want to take her?" Joanne asked, referring to Nina, who had her arms clasped around Joanne's neck, like a little monkey. "Here, Nina-Rina, say hi."

Collins held his arms out and took Nina into them. His heart simply melted at the sight of her heart-shaped face and dark ringlets, like Maureen's, and her wide baby-blue eyes.

Now that her arms were free, Joanne went to greet Mark and Stephanie. "Mark, hi," she said, hugging him.

"Hi," Mark smiled.

"Where's Roger? I thought he'd come with you guys?"

"No. To be honest," Mark confided, _sotto voce_, "we haven't seen Roger for two weeks."

"I thought you said he was back?" Joanne matched Mark's tone.

"He is, but it's not like the guy has Lo-Jack or anything. Collins and I met him for lunch at the Moondance, and—that was the last we saw of him."

"Where is he staying?"

"He won't say. But Collins told him about the party today. We're hoping he remembers and that he hasn't fled."

"You and me both."

"You want a drink?"

"Please."

Luc waited for another hour before officially serving the food. Collins had informed him that there would be seven guests, but Luc only counted six. He went over to where Collins was standing by the window. Mark was once again by his side.

"_Cher_, are we missing someone?" he asked his lover.

Collins' brow crinkled and he turned to Mark. "Where's Roger? He said he'd be here."

"He should be coming," Mark insisted, not believing it himself.

"What should I do about the food?" Luc asked, pulling his lips into a frown. "I don't want the etoufée to dry out in the oven."

"Serve the food," Collins advised, "but put some aside in case Roger decides to show up."

The group loaded their plates with Luc's food, raving all the while about the taste. The only one who would only pick at her food was Nina, who refused to eat anything her mothers fed her except for the rice.

Mark ate little, worrying about Roger. He knew he should probably just enjoy himself and not agonize about his whereabouts, but it was something he couldn't help. They'd seen each other two weeks ago—what could have possibly happened?

"So, Stephanie," Maureen was asking congenially. "What is it that you do?"

"I'm a teacher," Stephanie replied with a shy smile.

"A teacher," Maureen repeated, somewhat surprised. She raised an eyebrow at Mark. "What grade?"

"First," Stephanie answered. "I teach at an elementary school in New Jersey."

"That's great," Maureen smiled. "Tell me, Stephanie—is Mark a good student?" Mark choked on his wine.

Stephanie gave a small giggle, "Well, I've had to put him in his place a few times. But he's a fast learner." Mark had the urge to crawl under the couch and die.

Across the room, Joanne was conversing with Collins, as Nina crawled into in her lap.

"She really does look remarkably like Maureen," Collins marveled at the toddler. "Especially around the eyes and mouth. And of course the hair."

"Looks and acts," Joanne rolled her eyes. "A little diva in the making, this one. Her first word was _mine_." Nina giggled and buried her face in Joanne's lacy red blouse.

Collins chuckled. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest."

"Maureen says it was her first word, too."

"What was yours?"

"'Book'."

There was no sign of Roger until the meal was almost over. Mark was glancing at his watch anxiously throughout the entire party, which Stephanie kept teasing him about.

"Why do you keep checking the time?" Joanne asked. "Tired of us already?"

"Mark's timing his contractions!" Stephanie exclaimed, "Because he's going to have kittens if Roger doesn't show up soon."

"What?" Mark's expression was thoroughly confused and his wife rolled her eyes.

"Oh please. We all know that's what you're worried about. You've got a terrible poker face."

"I know, doesn't he?" Maureen joined in with the teasing. "I've won a lot of money off of that poker face."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You're all so funny."

The doorbell rang and the talking and laughter ceased. The only noise came from the stereo, a song by Sheryl Crow. No one moved. Collins coughed into his handkerchief and asked Luc, "Will you get that, please, baby?"

Luc, who had been standing closest to the door, nodded. He peered into the peephole, drew back, and looked over his shoulder at everyone else. He shrugged, sighed and opened the door.

At first, Luc almost mistook him for a homeless man that had somehow gotten into the building. His blonde hair was as scraggly, pulled back into a ponytail. He had thick stubble on his cheeks and chin. The jeans he wore were faded and threadbare. He wore a button-down shirt of olive green, but the cuffs were frayed. His shoes were hiking boots. It was a poor attempt to look presentable.

"May I help you?" Luc asked as congenially as he could.

"I…I'm here for th-the party?" he said uncertainly. "I'm…a friend of Collins'. You must be Luc."

"I am. Are you Roger?" Luc asked after a beat, the light bulb in his attic suddenly going on.

"Yeah," Roger smiled slightly. "How'd you know?"

"Wild guess," Luc replied, opening the door a little wider. "_Entre, s'il vous plaît_."

"Thank you." He entered the apartment and noticed, immediately, that everyone was staring at him. _I guess I'm more than fashionably late_.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about that abrupt ending, again. I had to split this chapter into two, or else it would have gone on way to long! 


	9. The Garden

_Please, don't pick me up  
__Cus I'm trying to take a break from the world  
__Cus we ain't been heard  
__See, we ain't so bad  
__We got everything we need to survive  
__Cus you gave us a life.  
_Van Tramp, "The Garden"

After Roger was greeted and hugged and kissed within an inch of his life, Luc immediately handed him a plate of the food he'd missed out on. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't hot either. Luc apologized, but Roger claimed he didn't mind; he'd had worse.

"For dessert," Luc announced to everyone else, "there's pecan pie, beignets, and strawberry shortcake. And I picked up a box of cookies for the little ones." He placed everything out on the counter and wiped his hands on a dishtowel.

"Wow," Maureen exclaimed, thoroughly impressed. "You're like, really good at this cooking thing." She smiled as Hunter eagerly took a chocolate chip cookie that Luc handed to him.

"Oh, I learned only from the best. My mother," he smiled. "If you'd like, I'll be happy to teach you a few things."

"Really? That'd be stupendous. I'm pretty useless in the kitchen."

"Not for long, with my help."

While everyone else treated themselves to Luc's desserts, Mark and Roger shared a private conversation. Roger was eating a cookie.

"Where have you been?" Mark asked him.

"Jesus, I haven't been here for five minutes and you're already playing detective? Lay off me, would you?" Roger scowled.

"Why won't you accept anyone's offer for shelter?"

"Because, I don't _need_ it."

"Why haven't we seen you for two weeks?"

"I…I needed to clear my head, okay? I hate being back here. You of all people should know that." He brushed cookie crumbs off his hands.

Mark shook his head. "You're a disappointment, Roger." He turned away from his friend and went to the couch, where Stephanie was sitting with Maureen. "Steph, can we get out of here soon?"

Stephanie gave him a strange look. "I—what? Really? You've been waiting for Ro—"

"I just would really, really like to get home right now. Please." He paused. "I have work to do."

Another look from Stephanie made Mark wish he could have retracted what he just said. "Alright, babe. Just…can you wait an hour?"

_An hour. You might have well asked me to wait an eternity._ "Yeah. I can wait another hour."

"Have another glass of wine and catch up with Roger." It sounded more like an admonishment than a suggestion. _Go play with the other kids. Mommy isn't done here yet. _

When Mark turned back to Roger, he saw that Roger was now engrossed in a conversation with Joanne. He was sitting on the floor of the apartment, cross-legged, with Nina in his lap. His hands were on the tops of his knees, palms up, and Nina was finding particular joy in slapping her palms against his, as if she were giving him a high-five. Every so often, Roger would playfully catch her hand in his, making her squeal and giggle with amusement. For some reason, the toddler had taken to him very quickly. Joanne, who was perched on the couch, was impressed.

"When did you get so good with kids?" she asked.

"Since I became an uncle, I guess," Roger shrugged. He looked over his shoulder at Mark. "What's up his ass?"

"He's worried about you," Joanne said gently. "He wants to help you but you're not really giving him a chance."

Roger rolled his eyes. "I'm a big boy now. I don't need Mark Cohen to take care of me anymore." He averted his gaze when Mark came over.

"Hey," Mark said, sitting on the arm of the couch, beside Joanne. Roger merely nodded, acknowledging Mark's appearance.

"How long do you plan on staying?" Joanne asked Roger. "A few weeks?"

"I don't know," he mused. He continued his game with Nina as he carried on the conversation. "Maybe. Maybe longer, maybe shorter. I don't know. It depends on how I feel."

"How _are_ you feeling these days?" she further inquired.

Roger paused. "I've been better." His left hand caught Nina's left hand, like a mousetrap, and Nina laughed. "I enjoyed Vegas."

"Mark said you were living with your brother."

"Mm-hmm. My little brother Calvin and his wife. I wasn't living there the whole time. I traveled, saw the country. Made money from performing."

"You're performing?"

"Every so often. I started writing songs while I was on the road."

"You started writing songs?" Collins entered the conversation. He had his handkerchief out more and more often. He explained that his cough got worse as the day wore on, making it necessary to sleep wearing an oxygen mask.

"A few, yeah," Roger admitted sheepishly.

"Will you sing one for us?"

Roger blanched. He pursed his lips and caught Nina's right hand this time; she gave another loud giggle. "I'm not in the mood to sing."

"Oh, come on—it's been so long," Joanne urged. "Not since your—" She cut herself off. "It's been a few years."

Roger knew what she was referring to. Since Mimi and Roger could not afford a big wedding, they had to sacrifice the little things. Roger himself sang as Mimi walked down the aisle: "For Once In My Life" by Stevie Wonder.

"Yeah," Collins urged. "It's been way too long since we've heard you sing."

"I'm nothing like I was," Roger replied. Nina had lost interest in their palm-slapping game and was now distracted by the chain around Roger's neck where the wedding rings hung from. "My voice isn't at the top of its game." Nina's tiny hands reached up to grab the chain; Roger didn't mind until the toddler gave the chain a sharp yank. The chain didn't snap, but Roger was alarmed and carefully pried the chain from her fingers, tucking it underneath his shirt. Maureen noticed this out of the corner of her eye.

"Sorry about that," she apologized as she pulled herself away from her conversation with Stephanie for a moment. "She likes shiny things. She's like a monkey."

"It's okay," Roger said, but Nina was offended that her "toy" had been taken away. Her heart-shaped face crumpled and she reached out for Mommy, crying. "Oh…but it's apparently not okay for Nina." He lifted her off his lap and held her out to Joanne, who took her. "I didn't want her to break it, so I—"

"You don't have to make excuses," Joanne said with a small smile, trying to soothe her daughter. Nina wrapped her arms around Joanne's neck. "We learned the hard way. She likes shiny things and she likes to pull—lost quite a number of earrings thanks to her."

"Not to mention necklaces," Maureen added.

"Maybe you should sing. It will calm her down," Collins suggested with a small smile.

"I don't have my guitar with me," Roger said.

"Can you sing a cappella?" Luc asked curiously. He brought Nina a cookie, which she took happily.

"Roger, you're going to sing?" Mark inquired. He'd only heard bits and pieces of the conversation.

_Great, Now the whole room is egging me on._ "No, I—"

"What's wrong with singing a cappella?" Collins asked. "Not having a guitar never stopped you when you were in the shower."

Mark and Maureen busted out laughing, Collins along with them. Roger blushed furiously.

"Alright already," he relented. "If it will make you chuckleheads shut the hell up."

"It will," Collins said happily. "And don't cuss in front of the babies."

"I'm not a _baby_!" chirped Hunter, insistently. He was quieted by Maureen.

The room was then silent. The proverbial pin drop could be heard. Roger felt caught between a rock and a hard place. _Do or die time._

He cleared his throat and, softly, began to sing,

"_Oh brother won't you pray for me for all that lies ahead.  
__Keep me from the wrongs I'm bound to write.  
__And sister, it'll stay with me, all the things you said,  
__As the lights go down and I kiss the world good night.  
__And here I'm standing high above the water.  
__A fallen angel stares into my eyes.  
__And late night bard and big old cars  
__Crash inside my head  
__And shooting stars and twisted stripes collide.  
__Help me, help me make it  
__Through the night." _

He closed his eyes when he sang, as he almost always did. He concentrated on nothing but the words, trying to make them sound halfway decent without the accompaniment of a guitar. It was a little harder halfway though the song, where it mainly relied on the tempo of the music, but miraculously, his voice seemed to make up for it. When he was done, he opened his eyes, slowly. Everyone was still, until Collins clapped fiercely. The rest of the gang followed eagerly. Maureen gave a little whoop of joy, in true Maureen fashion. A fast blush crept up Roger's neck.

"That was great, Roger," Collins grinned, patting his shoulder.

"Thank you," Roger replied. His face felt hot all of a sudden and unbuttoned one of the buttons on his shirt.

"Where did you write that?" Stephanie asked.

"I…I wrote it in…Colorado," Roger sputtered. "I was camping out by the Rockies."

"You alright?" Mark asked him. "You look—"

"I think I need some fresh air," Roger said. "Would you mind if I…"

"Not at all," Collins said. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," Roger whispered. He wiped his forehead on his brow and ducked out of the apartment.

The room filled with an awkward level of silence once Roger left. Maureen and Joanne took this as their cue to leave: the kids were getting cranky anyway.

"I think you should go check on Roger," Stephanie suggested after they had all had hugged and kissed Maureen and Joanne good-bye. "I'll help Luc clean up."

"You think I should?" Mark asked.

"Yeah," Collins nodded as he began to clear the coffee table. "Just make sure he's alright. He's probably on the roof—no matter where that boy is; he can't resist getting away to a roof."

* * *

A/N: Roger's song is actually "Help Me Make It" by Van Tramp—a band headed by none other than Tim Howar, the current Broadway Roger.


	10. Wine Red

_I cut the arrow from your neck  
Stretched you beneath the tree  
Among the roots and baby's breath  
I covered us with silver leaves  
Gloria, we lied, we can't go on  
This is the time and this is the place to be alive  
_The Hush Sound, "Wine Red"

Mark did find Roger on the roof of the building, smoking a cigarette. He was casually leaning against the ledge. His shift was unbuttoned even more, halfway down, and he had the sleeves rolled up.

"You found me," Roger said. He coughed a bit as he exhaled on his cigarette.

"Those things'll kill you," Mark commented about the cigarette.

"I'm counting on it. Collins ask you to find me?"

"Stephanie did. Why'd you bolt out of there so fast?"

"I don't know. I felt like I was having a panic attack or something." Mark approached him, as he kept talking. "My chest closed up, I felt like I couldn't breathe."

Mark paused and came to stand beside his friend. "Roger…if there's something wrong, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Roger narrowed his eyes, intense hazel-green. "Oh, is that supposed to make me forget about what a giant tool you were to me a few hours ago when I first stepped in that door?"

"I'm sorry. I was mad," Mark admitted. "I felt like you were cutting me out of your life. I miss you, Roger."

"I miss you too, Mark."

"So, why won't you stay at my place with me and Steph?"

"I'm sorry, Mark, I'm afraid I can't do that," he replied, in an impressive imitation of Hal in _2001: A Space Odyssey_.

"Can you at least tell us where you're staying?"

"Nope."

Mark paused. "Are you going to come back inside?"

"Eventually. I need to cool off." Needless to say that it was hotter outside than it was inside the apartment. It was late May, almost Memorial Day, and the temperature was already climbing.

"But you're okay now, right?"

"For now, yeah."

"Okay, I'll let everyone else know." Mark gave Roger a little smile and shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned to leave, but before he reached the staircase, he called to him, "For what it's worth, I liked your song a lot! I thought it was great."

"You think?"

"Well, I liked it a lot better than I liked 'Your Eyes'."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Mark grinned mischievously. "I…I actually thought 'Your Eyes' kind of…sucked."

Roger chuckled. "You're an asshole."

"Sorry. I know. I'll work on that." The pair shared a smile and, the last thing Mark saw before he opened the door to head downstairs was Roger shooting him the middle finger.

When Mark returned from the rooftop, Stephanie and Luc were doing dishes and Collins was sitting on the couch, looking worn out. Mark sat beside him.

"How's he doing?" Collins asked.

"He just needs some time alone," Mark replied. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

When Mark and Stephanie finally returned home a few hours later, Mark immediately retreated to his production room—just a spare room in the back of the apartment that Mark had set up when he first moved in, a small, airless and windowless room that consisted of three computers set up on a semicircle desk. He had a shelf that was filled, top to bottom, with VHS tapes and blank DVD's.

Stephanie, feeling miffed that he'd abandoned her so suddenly without even taking off his shoes, followed him.

"I don't think you'll want any dinner, right? I'm still full," she said with a forced cheerfulness, leaning against the doorway of the production room.

"No," was Mark's simple answer. His head was currently under the desk, turning on all three computers.

"Maybe later we can watch a movie?"

"I don't know, I have a lot of work to get done," he said, settling into his high-backed office chair. "I have deadlines."

_Screw your deadlines._ "You can't take a few hours to—"

"Shut the door on the way out, would you?"

Stephanie sighed and put her hand on the doorknob. "Sorry to bother you, then," she said softly. She pulled the door closed.

* * *

At one AM on the Upper West Side, Joanne was in front of her computer, a mug of tea within arms reach. She was looking over several affidavits for an upcoming case that she'd been trying to get her head into. She'd wrongfully neglected it the past two weeks, leaving the majority of the work to be done by her partner, in favor of spending time with Collins. It was a paternity suit that had arisen when a client of Joanne's was killed in a car accident. Her will had stipulated that her child be placed with his real father—but whether the father was her husband, her fiancé, or her boyfriend was another story. 

Maureen had tried for hours to sleep, but the heat made her toss and turn. Now, she read through Ibsen's _Hedda Gabler_. She'd never really been interested in Ibsen's work, finding it too dry, not to mention the fact that she'd read_ A Doll's House_ in high school, and disliked it. She hated Nora, calling her weak and uninteresting. However, one of her actors suggested that she read this particular work, calling the title character a "female Hamlet".

Just as Hedda was encouraging Løvborg to commit suicide, Maureen heard Nina stir in her crib. When Maureen went into her daughter's room to check in on her, she saw that the baby was still asleep. With a small sigh of relief, she closed the door behind her and approached the crib. Maureen gently brushed Nina's dark curls with her fingers, adjusted the blanket that she'd kicked off, and kissed her cheek. Then, she sat on the floor beside the crib, hugged her knees to her chest, and watched Nina sleep.

At two AM in Chelsea, Collins was awaking from a feverish sleep, a cold sweat on his brow, coughing a horrible, wracking cough that jolted Luc awake. Collins scrambled for his oxygen mask, trying to catch a breath. Luc went to the bathroom and brought his lover a glass of water. He held the glass as Collins took a sip, the liquid smoothly going down his throat. After that ordeal, neither could return to sleep. The pair sat up in bed and Luc turned on the fourteen-inch color television they kept in the bedroom, and flipped through the channels until they found _The Birdcage_ playing on a cable channel. Luc wrapped one his arm around Collins, who rested his head on his shoulder.

At three AM in SoHo, Mark was wide awake. He'd been shut away in his production room for five hours straight. The three computers surrounding him hummed a white noise, the heat of the equipment adding to the heat of the small room he was in. He had suddenly come into four projects—two segments for ABC, one for NBC, and a wedding video. Of course, he took them all on at the same time: either to prove himself or so he wouldn't have to think about anything or anyone else for some time.

He was working on the wedding video at this point. He studied the footage of the ceremony: attractive young couple, perhaps in their early to mid-twenties. The groom was deeply tanned, with dark hair. The bride was a dark blonde, with an ornate tattoo that was revealed by her backless dress. He was about to add the opening titles when he looked at the order form to check the correct spelling of the couples' names. He had to do a double-take when he did: Antonia and Mark Dorian. He chuckled wryly to himself as he typed in their names, along with the date and location of the wedding, information copied off from an extra invitation the bride had given him when she dropped off the footage.

As he cut and edited the film, Mark thought about his own wedding to Stephanie. He was twenty-seven when he married her; she had been twenty-three. He had waited until she graduated college to propose to her, and the wedding took nearly a year to plan. She wanted an extravagant affair with flowers, candles, ice sculptures, a six-piece orchestra and nine bridesmaids. Just the thought of such decadence gave Mark cold feet and a wicked case of heartburn, and he'd begged and pleased with Stephanie to tone it down. After several arguments, Mark managed to persuade her out of ice sculptures; suggested using only one kind of flower instead of three for the bouquets; and talked her down from nine bridesmaids to four. Her dress, however, was something Mark had no say in, and ended up being the most expensive thing out of the whole ordeal.

In that same loft in SoHo, Stephanie rolled over in bed and reached her hand out for her husband—but his side of the bed was cold. She opened her eyes, peering through the spider web of lashes, only to find Mark's side unoccupied. It looked like he never came to bed at all. Crestfallen, she pulled herself out of bed and went to the production room. She wore only a silk negligee, blue, printed with butterflies on it, showing off the rise of her breasts and her slender legs. The fabric stuck to her skin in the heat.

"Mark?" Stephanie called. Her voice was deep.

"Yeah?" Mark didn't turn his chair to face her.

"Come to bed. You've been at this for hours. Please?"

"I will."

"When?"

"When I'm done."

"When will that be?"

"Stephanie!" Mark snapped, whirling his chair around to face her. "This is work, alright? I'm not doing this for my own enjoyment!"

Stephanie wilted inside. This wasn't the first time he'd spoken harshly to her, but she never got used to it. "I'm sorry."

Mark turned his chair back around to face his computer again. "It's alright. I'll be there when I'm done, okay?"

"Okay," she replied in a whisper. She closed the door to the production room and went back to the bedroom. She crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter over her tightly, hugging it to herself. She then burst into tears, smothering her sobs into a pillow.

* * *

A/N: I have nothing against Henrik Ibsen. I actually like _A Doll's House_. Just…wanted to put that out there. And yes, I know this is just a filler chapter—it'll be getting better. I promise. Oh, and I really do hate "Your Eyes". Well, except when Tim Howar sings it. Hehe. I went to see him in _Rent_ yesterday and he kissed me on the cheek. GLEE! 


	11. On Love, In Sadness

_Oh love, it's a brittle madness, I sing about it in all my sadness  
It's not falsified to say that I found God so inevitably well,  
It still exists pale and fine. I can't dismiss,  
And I won't resist and if I die, well, at least I tried  
_Jason Mraz, "On Love, In Sadness"

Late in the month of June, flash floods prevented Stephanie from driving into New Jersey to get to her first-graders. She called in a substitute and stayed home for two days, hoping to perhaps use this time to rekindle the romance of her marriage to Mark. But instead, she found herself sitting on the couch for the majority of the morning and early afternoon, downing coffee and watching talk shows and movies on cable. Mark spent the majority of his time in the production room.

How different he was now that Roger and Collins were back, Stephanie mused to herself. Suddenly, all of his energy and passion were drained. They hadn't slept together in a month, which was making her anxious. She wanted a baby with Mark, badly, but he no longer seemed interested in her. Several awful thoughts wreaked havoc in her mind—was he having an affair? Did he no longer find her attractive? She had privately begun dieting and going to the gym, hoping to reshape herself so that Mark would want her again. She was a size six when they married, and she was now a size eight. She feared that what her mother said was true: women gained weight after they married.

The rain from New Jersey made its way into the city in the afternoon. Stephanie got herself off the couch, showered and dressed in a pair of old jeans and a soft-knit jersey tee. It was sage green, a color that Mark loved her in. He said it set off the dark red of her hair.

She approached the door to the production room and knocked.

"Come in," said Mark's voice, a bit annoyed that he was being interrupted. Stephanie cracked the door open anyway.

"Hi, babe," she greeted softly.

"Hey," was his simple salutation. He held a pen between his teeth. His brow was furrowed.

"I…I was thinking: why don't we go out for dinner tonight?" She sidled up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "We could go somewhere quiet…talk…"

"Can't," Mark said quickly, removing the pen from his mouth. He scribbled something down on the clipboard that rested upon his knee, crossed something else out, and replaced the pen. "I have these segments due."

"Dinner won't take long, Mark." She slipped her hands around his chest.

He sighed and glanced at the digital clock that rested on the shelf beside his computers. "I'm going to Collins' in an hour. I don't know when I'll be back."

Stephanie removed her hands. "Oh."

"We can do dinner another time."

She paused. "Sure."

"Are you upset?"

Another pause. "No. It's okay. The weather's crap, anyway."

Mark knew that tone of hers, that tone that told him she was disappointed but would carry on anyway as if nothing was wrong. He'd become familiar with that tone over the past five years.

He waited until Stephanie closed the door of the production room to take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was stretched thin, no doubt about it.

At two o'clock, Mark pushed his high-backed office chair away from his semi-circle of desks and rubbed his eyes. He was supposed to be at Collins' already. It had become a habit, now that he was back in town, to meet up once a week, the lot of them, even though Joanne was frequently unavailable.

Mark went to the closet to slip on his dirty Converse sneakers and headed back towards the living room, where Stephanie was reading a book, her feet propped up on the heavy wooden coffee table. Mark vividly recalled what an ordeal it was to get that damn table up to the fourth floor apartment.

"I'm…I'm headed out to Chelsea now," Mark announced.

Stephanie looked up from her book. "Oh. When will you be home?"

"Don't know. Before dinner I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'll give you a call," Mark promised. He paused. "So…goodbye, then."

"Wait, Mark," Stephanie called out as he walked to the door. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"Oh. Right." He turned around and went back towards the living room. She tilted her head towards him and smiled sweetly. He kissed her on the cheek—dutifully, perfunctory, as if he was kissing his grandmother. Her smile evaporated once his back was turned to leave. "See you later, Steph."

She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps to release the tears she'd been holding back for several hours.

* * *

Roger bought a hot cheese Danish and a large cup of coffee at a deli and went to enjoy them on a bench on the perimeter of Central Park, where he was shaded by the overhanging of trees. It was still drizzling, but the rain was icy, leaving a damp chill in its wake.

As he chomped down on his Danish, Roger glanced at the cheap Timex buckled around his wrist. He should have been at Collins' house half an hour ago, but he didn't feel up to going. He thought about calling Mark, but he feared talking Stephanie.

What a strange girl for Mark to be married to: a svelte, porcelain kitten, too submissive and soft-spoken. A complete one-eighty from the women he used to date.

Before Maureen, there had been Elise. She and Mark had met at Brown, before he dropped out. Elise was a crunchy, outspoken activist who didn't shave or use shampoo. Raised by hippie parents, Elise was a hardcore vegan who dragged Mark to protest after protest, played guitar (badly, Roger might add), and ended up dropping out of Brown a year after Mark did to join Greenpeace. She broke up with him in a letter postmarked from Iceland. Mark, in his morbid sentimentalism, hung it on the refrigerator with a magnet, and left it there until Maureen moved in two years later.

For some reason, Mark found himself dating women who were dominant, controlling, who wore the pants, called the shots. He was more than happy to be led around on a leash by a pretty girl. Roger had a feeling that, with someone like Stephanie, Mark was completely lost.

He finished his Danish, gulped down the last of his coffee, and tossed the garbage into a nearby trash receptacle. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and headed towards Chelsea.

* * *

As Mark let himself into Collins and Luc's apartment, everyone was gathered in the living room: Collins and Luc on the couch, Maureen sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Joanne in an overstuffed yellow armchair. Maureen was completing an amusing anecdote that had occurred while she was directing a production of Noel Coward's _Blithe Spirit_:

"…So, we're all sitting in a circle on the stage, after the first time we've ever run the show, and we're all in our street clothes and whatever, and I was trying to get them to recite their lines as fast as they could, to help them pick up the pace," she was saying. "In the first act, during the séance, Brett delivers this line, 'Violet, be quiet', to Christina—and without missing a beat, Christina jumps up and shouts, at the top of her lungs, might I add: 'Only if you put your dick in my mouth!'"

Collins and Luc doubled over in laughter and Joanne was giggling softly, looking like she'd heard this story quite a few times.

"I heard Noel Coward was gay," Luc said, "but I could only imagine his reaction to that adlib."

"Please don't tell me she did that during the actual show," Collins chuckled.

"No, no, no," Maureen grinned, "but it definitely broke the tension." She noticed Mark standing in the doorway. "Hey, Mark."

"Hey," Collins waved.

"Hi," Mark said, entering the bedroom. He pulled up a chair. "What's going on?"

"Oh, Maureen was just telling us about her motley crew of actors," Collins replied. "Where's Stephanie?"

"At home," Mark replied. "She had to get a substitute to teach her class today. There was a lot of flooding over there."

Collins gave a small frown, "And she didn't come with you?"

"No. She wasn't feeling well," he lied badly. "She'll come next time."

"Alright," Collins replied skeptically. "And Roger is…?"

"Where Roger is, is anybody's guess."

* * *

Mark returned home around nine PM. He slipped off his Converse and wandered into the kitchen, where he found Steph, sitting at the kitchen table with her legs tucked underneath her. A mug of tea was within arm's reach.

"Hey," he said in greeting.

She glanced up at him. "Hi."

"Sorry if I'm a little late. Roger showed up at the last minute, as always. Did you make dinner?"

"No," she said. "I didn't. You didn't tell me when you'd be back, so I just grazed tonight." Mark's head was already in the open refrigerator before she finished the end of her sentence.

"Mm-hmm," was his nonchalant answer. He shifted a few things on the refrigerator shelves. Olives, sun dried tomatoes, tofu.

"How is he?" Stephanie asked.

"Looks like hell. I don't know where he's staying, but it might as well be under the boardwalk at Coney Island."

"Not Roger. Collins."

"Oh. Well, I guess he looks about the same. Except for the oxygen tube he's hooked up to. Looks perfectly normal." Peanut butter, orange juice, a bowl of grapes.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?" Pasta salad, three apples, a carton of eggs.

"I'm pregnant."

Mark froze. His voice suddenly became stuck in his throat. "I—unh, you—that's… great."

"Great?" Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "I'm pregnant, we're finally starting a family, and all you can say is 'that's great'?"

"I didn't mean 'great'," Mark pulled away from the refrigerator and closed the door. "I meant, wonderful. Really. That's fantastic, Steph."

"You mean it?"

"Of course I do," he said with a small smile, all he could muster at this point. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm really happy."

"You are?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"That's so nice to hear, Mark," Stephanie wrapped her arms around Mark's waist. "Maybe this is a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"That we're going to make it," she said cheerfully.

"Mm-hmm," Mark replied in a non-committal tone. "Sure. Make it." He kissed her forehead again. "I'm off to bed. See you there?"

"Yeah. Mark? I love you."

"Love you, too." His words were thrown over his shoulder as he left the room, as casually as a jacket.

* * *

A/N: The anecdote from _Blithe Spirit_ is true. I was involved in a production where, during a dress rehearsal, that actually happened. Credit is given where credit is due: thank you to Christina Cummings and Brett Druck for the best rehearsal ever!

Also, a moment of silence, please, for Helga, my laptop, who died just as I was saving all future chapters to my flash-drive. Thanks for being patient with this next chapter, and be aware that the next few chapters will be posted at a little bit of a slower pace, at least until my laptop is fixed.


	12. Rep Your Clique

_I'm calling all bars tonight  
__Pour me a glass, but don't be cheap with the wine  
__It's time to live until tomorrow ends  
__Because we don't need rest, we'll sleep when we're dead  
_The Audition, "Rep Your Clique"

Roger casually ran his finger in circles around and around the rim of his beer glass, trying to produce that pure, high-pitched note that only came from crystal. He glanced at the clock on the wall of the Life Café, fidgeting in his seat at the bar. Mark was late, as usual, and Roger was impatient.

Behind the bar was a girl Roger did not recognize. She was slight, with bleached blonde hair that was streaked with hot pink. She wore jeans and a neon green tee, zebra-striped. She modeled several piercings, including her nose and a Madonna, and a tongue stud that glinted silver when she talked. Roger also spotted a lower-back tattoo (along with a flashy yellow thong) when she bent over to grab a bottle of tequila.

He never really looked at other girls ever since Mimi and it had been some time since he'd been with anyone but her. When she died, he was convinced he would never love another. Not that he was in love with this bartender, but Roger liked the way she looked. Maybe, if he could find his balls, he'd be able to strike up a conversation with her before Mark arrived.

Just as he was about to call her over and ask her about her tattoo (and perhaps show off a few of his), Mark finally stumbled into the Life, as awkward and uncomfortable as ever. Mark hadn't been here in quite a few years, but the place hadn't changed really. He scanned the room for Roger and, when he spotted him, ambled his way over.

"Hey," he said as he slid into a seat at the bar beside Roger.

"You got my message."

"I did."

"Took you long enough," Roger admonished lightly. "Get lost?"

"Not exactly. Hey, Lucien," Mark greeted the girl at the bar, who came over as Mark settled into his seat.

"Hi, Mr. Cohen," she greeted. "What can I get you?"

"Just a beer, please. I didn't know you worked here."

Lucien shrugged casually and filled a chilled glass with Miller. "It pays the bills. And wearing a thong with low-rider jeans makes for good tips." She winked as she slid the glass towards him and shot the boys a small smile as she turned to serve another customer at the other end of the bar.

"You know her?" Roger asked as Lucien sauntered away, his eyes still on her lower back tattoo. It looked like some sort of tribal marking, like he had around his right arm.

"Mmm," Mark said around the rim of his beer glass. "Sort of."

Roger paused. "You're not fucking her, are you?"

Mark gagged on his beer and pulled the glass away from his lips. "No!" he sputtered. "God, no! No! What the hell gave you—no!"

"Well, how do you know her? You told me last week that you haven't been here in at least two years!"

"Lucien's son is one of Stephanie's students. I've met her at a few of those ridiculous family-oriented school functions. Parties and science fairs and Parent's Night and…all that crap."

"Her _son_?" Roger eyeballed Lucien in her skin-tight jeans, a silver-studded belt slung about her hips. "She doesn't look old enough to have a first-grader. Jesus."

"She's twenty-six."

"No kidding? Married?"

"I guess. I've only met her a few times, never really saw anyone with her, except her son. So…I don't know, maybe not. Anyway," Mark said with a sigh, "I'm sure you didn't call me all the way out here just to discuss the bartender's personal life."

"'All the way out here'? Mark, we used to _live_ here," Roger said with a shake of his head. "And I called you 'all the way out here' to just…you know, talk. Like we used to. Without everyone else."

"Oh. True. How was Las Vegas?"

"Quiet," Roger replied, between sips of beer. "Cal and Layla live in this little cul-de-sac of townhouses about ten, fifteen minutes off the Strip. You can see the lights from their roof."

"Sounds nice," Mark admitted.

"The weather's…weird, though. No snow, lots of rain. Dry heat. Freezing cold nights. The desert, you know."

"Did you gig out there a lot?"

"A few open mic nights here and there. Nothing spectacular. I don't want to talk about me anymore."

"Well…What _do_ you want to talk about?"

"I don't know. You. You and Stephanie, for starters. How'd you meet her?"

"I hired her. For a film crew," Mark added before Roger could make any snide comments. "Collins helped me put together a film crew for a project, and Stephanie was one of a dozen who volunteered. We just sort of…hit it off."

"Where's she from?"

"West Milford, New Jersey. Small town."

"She seems nice."

Mark ignored the off-handed tone in Roger's voice. "She's pregnant."

It was Roger's turn to sputter. "You're kidding."

"No…why would I kid about that?"

Roger shook his head. "You're going to have a _kid_!" he exclaimed. "That's pretty cool!"

Cool. "Well, I suppose that's one way to put it—"

"I need to buy you a shot!"

"No, please. Thank you, but no. I can't."

"Punk," Roger accused with a small smile. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"It's amusing to think that you assumed I had one in the first place. Look, I know it's exciting and all, but could you maybe keep it quiet for now?" Mark asked. "Stephanie wants to keep it on the down low, wait a few weeks before making the news official."

"Oh. Sure. How long does she plan on keeping it under wraps?"

"Until the twelve-week mark."

"Well, either way—you must be stoked, huh?"

"Sure, I guess. It could be fun, having a kid and all that. Passing on the genes into the next generation."

"Where'd you hear _that_?"

"Never mind. Anyway, it is pretty exciting," Mark rambled on.

"You don't sound excited."

"I am."

"Who are you trying to convince, Mark? Really?"

"I'm not trying to convince anyone."

"Bullshit." Lucien the bartender shot Roger a quizzical look when he uttered this profanity, something that did not go unmissed by him.

"Stop it, Roger."

"Whaaaaat? I'm not doing anything—except calling you out."

"I'll leave, I swear, if you don't shut up."

"Okay, okay. But I won't believe it until I see it."

"See what?"

"That you're actually thrilled to death about having a kid. And if you are, I'll mail you a box of cigars when the kid pops out."

"Do you have to be so…graphic?"

Roger only laughed in response.

* * *

July smothered New York City with its heat. People found themselves drenched in sweat just from walking from their apartments to the nearest subway station. The subways themselves were so humid it was bordering on unbearable. Everywhere, people looked exhausted, like they'd given up on life and were looking to off themselves on the nearest fire hydrant. No one was sleeping. Tempers were short, and blamed on the heat. Mark Cohen was the first to do so after snapping at Stephanie one too many times. 

All Stephanie could really do was nod and accept his apologies when they were offered. Now that it was summer, she was home full time. Her first-graders were on their way to becoming second-graders, and a fresh batch of six-year-olds would be on their way come September. Being home these past three weeks made Stephanie used to Mark's short fuse. She did her best to smooth things over—cooking his favorite foods, doting on him. Despite everything, however, she ended up eating alone more often than not. When Mark wasn't with Collins, he was shut away in his production room. NBC, ABC and CBS kept him busy, calling his office line and handing him productions left and right. On top of his network workload, he took on other customers with their wedding videos, baptisms, communions, bar mitzvahs, etc.

Ever since Stephanie told him she was pregnant, Mark hadn't changed his behavior much. The least he could do was have dinner with her each night and be beside her in bed. But for the most part, he barely managed _that_.

"Honestly, I don't know how you've stood it for this long," said Lydia, one of Stephanie's best friends. Her blonde hair was styled into a bob, with the bangs hanging over her eyes, which were bright blue and framed with heavy mascara. They were sitting across from one another at the Starbucks on 8th and Broadway, trying to prolong their stay in an air-conditioned environment. They'd gone to NYU together, having met at their freshman orientation and roomed together for two years; and had been bridesmaids at each others' weddings. Lydia now had two little boys, one of which Stephanie was the godmother of. She sipped her frappuccino and tapped her manicured fingernails onto the table. "I would have cut him loose ages ago, babe."

"I just have to be persistent," Stephanie assured her. She stirred her straw around in her iced chai. "He'll come around."

"When? You can't pretend to be pregnant forever, you know," Lydia pointed out.

"Just give it a few more weeks. I _want_ to make this work."

"Okay. I just don't want you ending up hurt, Steph. Mark's not necessarily a bad guy, but he _is_ a tough nut to crack."

"Exactly. He's _not_ a bad guy. Which is why I'm giving him this chance."

"Alright, Steph. I hope you're right."

"Me too, Lyd. Me too."

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for being oh-so-patient! Helga is still in the shop. She's taking a lot longer to fix than we originally thought. Apparently the part she needs _still_ hasn't arrived. It's frustrating, but by God, it WILL get done! TTFN. 


	13. Breakaway

_Came to a fork stuck in the road  
My mind is crystal clear  
I know exactly where to go  
Anywhere but here  
All the stars shine so bright  
Maybe I should pack my things and fly into the sky  
_Diffuser, "Breakaway"

Joanne adjusted the brim of her straw hat and reclined in her beach chair. She lowered her Kate Spade sunglasses slightly and gave her son a glare.

"Hunter Johnson-Jefferson, do _not_ bury your sister," she scolded. The six year old guiltily put down the plastic shovel he was wielding with a mischievous grin on his face.

Maureen returned from the beach house with a small cooler tucked under her arm, sweat beads rolling down the side of her face. "Okay," she sang. "I've got juice boxes for the kiddies and beers for the mommies—Hunter! _Don't_ _bury_—"

"Oh-_kay_!" muttered Hunter.

Maureen knelt to brush the sand off Nina, who was wearing a pink and white sun suit with a matching hat covering her dark curls. "Next time, I'm throwing that shovel into the ocean and you'll never see it again." She scooped up the toddler and placed her on the cheery yellow blanket that was spread out in front of Joanne's and her chairs. She then reached into the cooler and pulled out a juice box. Nina whined as Maureen dug the straw into the box and wouldn't settle until she had it in her hands.

"Hunter, why don't you go take your shovel and see if anyone wants to play?" Joanne suggested. She gestured casually to a nearby family with a little boy about Hunter's age, with his sister who looked to be older, digging quite a large hole. "Maybe they need some help over there on their dig to China."

"I don't _want_ to!"

Joanne rolled her eyes. "Fine. Sit here and do nothing, then."

After several seconds of stone-cold silence, Hunter gathered up his beach toys and stalked over. Joanne watched as Hunter shyly approached the siblings and, within moments, was happily digging with them. Joanne gave a wave to the other children's parents and, once she was sure Hunter was occupied, reached into the cooler for a beer, taking one out for Maureen as well.

"Thank you," Maureen replied, twisting off the cap. She took a sip from the sweating bottle and then pressed it to her forehead. "It's so damn hot out." She wore a red string bikini with black trim; her slender body glistening from perspiration and suntan lotion.

"You should be wearing a hat, baby," Joanne admonished, wearing a bright blue one-piece. "You want me to grab you one from the house?"

Maureen glanced sideways at her partner, "And look like I'm about to hit the Oregon Trail with Maw and Paw? No thanks. Hand me the SPF one-trillion."

"Suit yourself." Though Joanne knew that with Maureen's Irish ancestry, she had no chance in the sun. She'd be as red as her bikini by the time the sun went down.

The Johnson-Jefferson family was currently spending their vacation in Long Beach Township, New Jersey, in a small and recently developed area known as Loveladies, where the majority of the properties were privately owned by upscale residents. Joanne's family had owned a large-scale beachfront home in Loveladies for at least twenty years, and was one of Joanne's favorite vacation spots. They had been taking the children there since Hunter was an infant.

"Do you feel guilty at all," Maureen reached for her vintage cat's-eye sunglasses, "that we're here and everyone else is back in New York?"

Joanne raised an eyebrow and sat up. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, with Collins not doing so well…do you think we should have cancelled this year?"

"You're not serious. I don't think Collins would want us to cancel our vacation."

Maureen was silent in thought. "Do you remember where we were when my father died?"

"We were in Stamford for that GLSEN event."

"Yeah, well—thing is, I should have been there. Instead I was in a hotel ballroom in Connecticut, drinking red wine and discussing Wendy Wasserstein!"

"Maureen, your father had a heart attack. No one could have predicted that."

"You don't know what it's like," Maureen continued. "When we got back to the room and I found that message on my phone from Richie—it's a helpless feeling, to know that someone you love is dead and there was nothing that could have been done and you weren't there!"

"Maureen, calm down," Joanne slid off her beach chair and sat on the blanket with Maureen and Nina, who was busily scooping dry sand into a plastic bucket with her hands. She gently rubbed her back in an attempt to soothe her.

"I'm sorry," Maureen whispered. "I don't know why I'm acting like this." She swiped at a renegade tear trying to escape the corner of her eye.

"You've known Collins for a long time," Joanne said. "It's okay. I understand. You guys were roommates for years."

"He was like my brother. He was such a companion to me before he got that job at MIT."

"If you want to cut the vacation short," Joanne offered, "you can go back to New York and I'll stay here with the kids and finish out the week."

Maureen bit the inside of her cheek. "I just don't want to be the last to know."

"I know, baby, I know."

Maureen kissed Joanne's shoulder. "Could I borrow your cell phone, pookie?"

"What for?"

"I want to call Mark. He'll know what to do." She didn't want to let Joanne know that, even after all these years, and despite every conflict, Maureen still trusted Mark's opinion over everyone else's.

Joanne raised an eyebrow and dipped into her green canvas tote and pulled out her sleek LG. "Why don't I take Nina down to the water," Joanne suggested. "Come on, Ninarina—let's go see the waves."

Maureen watched Joanne walk with Nina down to where the waves crashed onto the shore and crept up to the sand. She observed with a small smile Nina squealing with enjoyment as soon as the cold seawater touched the tips of her toes. After a few minutes, Maureen flipped open the cell and searched Joanne's contacts for Mark's office number. Speed dial seven, Maureen discovered, as she punched the numeral with her thumb.

"Mark Cohen," Mark answered on the fourth ring, in a clipped, business-like tone.

"Mark. It's Maureen."

A pause. "Hey, Maureen." Another pause. "Where _are_ you?"

"In Loveladies with Joanne and the kids."

"Why are you calling _me_ then?"

"I need to ask for your opinion."

"Oh…alright."

"Should we come back?" Maureen blurted.

"Huh? Back where?"

"Back from vacation. Back to New York. I don't know. It seems wrong that we're here and Collins—"

"Maureen?"

"Yeah?"

"Didn't we have this conversation like, two weeks ago?"

"…I think so."

"So…why are we having it again?"

"You still think it's okay for me to be on vacation?"

"Collins wouldn't want you to cancel your vacation because of him. You know that more than I do. Look, worse comes to worse, you're only, what, two hours away?" Mark confirmed. "This is your va-ca-tion," he stressed, talking to Maureen as if she were Nina. "Forget about New York, hunt for seashells with your kids and take a long nap. We'll all be here when you get back. Okay?"

"Okay," Maureen said in a small voice. As clueless as Mark could be, he really did have his valuable moments of clarity. "Thanks, Mark."

"You're welcome, kiddo. Have a great time. Love to Joanne."

"Thanks." They bid their farewells and Maureen snapped the phone closed just as Hunter returned to the blanket.

"Mama, I want juice," he announced. Maureen was known as "Mama" to Hunter, who couldn't say _Maureen_ when learning to speak, and opted for just repeating the first syllable of her fist name.

"Please," she reminded him as she reached for the cooler, pulling it close to her. "Do your new friends want some? Here, we have plenty." She handed him three juice boxes and raised a hand to wave one mother to another.

"Thank you," he said as he meandered away, trying to balance the three boxes.

Joanne returned with Nina, her sun suit soaked in seawater. "We have a mini-mermaid on our hands," Joanne reported with a chuckle. "She had a blast."

"Oooh, really?" Maureen cooed as Nina happily toddled into her outstretched arms. "Did you have fun in the water, baby?"

"What did Mark say?" Joanne asked. She sat on the blanket and reached into her bag, this time for a box of baby wipes to clean the sticky sand from Nina's feet and hands.

"What do you think?" Maureen took the box from Joanne.

"I think we should go out for dinner tonight."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

A/N: This chapter is actually based on a semi-true event. Three days before I was set to leave for a ten-day trip to England, my grandfather suffered a heart attack and underwent bypass surgery. I fretted over whether or not this would affect my trip and considered cancelling, but it was my grandfather who urged me to go anyway. "Bring me back lots of pictures!" he said. 

Also, I obviously don't know if Maureen is really Irish or not. I just kind of guessed, considering the fact that "Maureen" is a very Irish name.

And by the way: GLSEN is an acronym for the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network. It's a wonderful organization that works to put an end to discrimination, harassment and bullying based on sexual orientation and gender identity in schools all over the US.


	14. Stop The World

_I'm cookin' up a resurrection  
I'll serve it to you on a silver plate  
You don't want a taste of the fantasies that I create  
I'm walkin' on broken eggshells  
Tryin' to make some sense of this  
Tryin' to save face with false appearances  
_Riddlin' Kids, "Stop The World"

July stretched into August, and Collins' conditioned worsened. Now hooked up to an oxygen tank full time, Luc hired a part-time nurse who would come by every day for a few hours, administering care. Mark met her for the first time quite by accident. As he swung open the apartment door (which Luc usually left unlocked) to visit one afternoon, he was greeted by a woman's voice saying, "Whoa! Almost took my nose off there!"

Mark came face-to-face with a dark blonde woman with broad shoulders, a pleasantly round face, blue-green eyes and a rosebud mouth. She wore khaki pants and a nurses' smock that was printed with sunflowers. She looked familiar, but Mark could not place her.

"Oh, Mark," Luc's voice came from the kitchen. He stepped out into the foyer, looking comfortable in a pair of cargo shorts and a gray tee reading, _UCLA Day of Silence 1998_. "This is Anti. She's Tom's nurse."

"Hi," Mark said as they shook hands. "I'm—"

"Mark Cohen," Anti finished with a smile. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"…No, I'm sorry."

She laughed. "It's okay. Antonia Dorian. You edited my wedding video."

"Oh. _Oh_! Yeah! I remember now."

"Wow, small world. What a coincidence," Anti turned to Luc, "He did a fabulous job, I might add." She slipped her blue Coach bag onto her shoulder and turned her attention to Mark once more. "I recommended you to my friend Molly. She's getting married next month."

"Well, thanks for the referral. I appreciate it."

"My pleasure. Well, Luc, I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay? Mark, nice to see you again."

"You, too," Mark said as he stepped aside to let Anti leave. Once she was out of earshot, he mused aloud, "I didn't know she was a nurse."

"Mmm," Luc said absentmindedly as he closed the door behind Mark. "Has she ever showed you her tattoo?"

"I saw it on the wedding video. Her dress was backless."

"Wild, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"Roger's here," Luc said. He and Mark moved to the living room. "He and Tom are in the bedroom."

"Oh. Okay. Wow, I didn't know Roger would be here."

"He's been here since breakfast," Luc revealed. "The two of them have been playing cards and watching TV all day."

"Really? That's…interesting. I haven't seen Roger in days."

"Do you want anything? _Café_?"

"Too hot for coffee."

"Beer?"

"No, I'm good, thanks."

"Are Maureen and Joanne still on vacation?"

"I spoke to Maureen a few days ago: they come back at the end of next week. They'll come bearing gifts, as always."

"I was thinking of maybe taking Tom away for Labor Day weekend," Luc mused. "Anti said a change of scenery might be good for him."

"That'd be nice," Mark offered. "Do you miss California?"

"I miss Louisiana," Luc laughed. "I'm not a California boy, never was. I was raised in the bayou, _cher_. Or, pretty damn near close to it."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"_Pas de problem_," Luc waved it off. "Well, you probably want to go visit with Tom. I'll be in in a few minutes. Just washing up."

"All right. See you later then."

Mark wandered into Collins' room, where he was sitting up in bed, on top of the covers, fully dressed. He would have looked completely natural if he didn't have an oxygen mask on his face. Roger was sitting beside the bed. They were playing Crazy Eights, laying the cards out on a raised bedtray that was placed over Collins' legs.

"Hey," Roger greeted, looking up from his hand. Collins' offered a wave.

"Hi," Mark said, pulling up another chair. "Who's winning?"

"I'm kicking his ass," Collins said triumphantly.

"Hey, I've playing nothing but Solitaire for _years_! I'm not used to an opponent," Roger laughed. "I now know the true meaning of the game."

"You want to be dealt in?" Collins offered.

"Nah, maybe the next round," Mark said.

"You sure?" Roger asked.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"What's the matter?" Collins asked as Roger contemplated his next move.

"Nothing's the matter," Mark said quickly. Roger shot him a Look. "Everything's great."

"Everything okay with Steph?"

"Mm-hmm," Mark answered.

"You sure? Come on, Mark…you can tell me," Collins said gently. "I would hate for anything to happen to you guys."

"Nothing's going to happen. I mean, things are going to _happen_, but not the kind of things you _think_ might happen. But things are definitely _happening_. But not the bad kind of thing."

Roger coughed to cover up a laugh as he discarded a card. Collins just gave him an odd stare. "Alright," he said. "But if you need anything: please don't hesitate."

"I won't."

"That goes for you, too!" Collins nudged Roger. He turned to Mark, "This one's been here since nine this morning. Just showed up like a puppy on the doorstep, asking what's for breakfast."

"Did not," Roger muttered. He scratched his stubble.

"You look like a hobo. Have you showered recently?"

"Of course I have."

"Don't you ever shave?"

"Are we going to play cards or discuss my personal hygiene?"

"Can't we do both?" Collins asked. "A-ha!" He placed down his last card, thus winning the hand. "Yes!"

"Crap," Roger muttered. "I'm glad we're not playing for money or I'd be broke by now."

Collins and Mark chuckled. Mark felt right at home with the two of them; it was just like the old days. He just wished things were slightly different.

* * *

Up late once again in his production room, Mark was rummaging through his desk, searching for his camera cleaning cloths. He usually had several on hand, but when he couldn't find them, he figured Stephanie must have taken them for the wash, as she did occasionally. Sighing, he pushed his rolling chair away from the desk and went on a hunt for tissues, a happy substitute. 

After searching in the kitchen, living room, and spare bedroom for a box of tissues, he meandered into the bedroom and ducked into the cabinet under the sink. He opened up the double doors, moving cleaning products and rolls of toilet paper in search of one measly box of tissues.

Towards the back, his hand knocked something over. Hoping it was the tissues he was looking for, he pulled out a box.

It wasn't tissues. Instead, in his hand, was a box of tampons. An opened box of tampons. Mark furrowed his brow. Stephanie was pregnant—why did she need tampons?

_They're not new, are they? _Mark thought to himself, turning the box over in his hands. _She must have bought them before she was pregnant. _Without thinking, he tucked the box under his arm and took it into the bedroom, where Stephanie was sleeping, and hid it in one of his dresser drawers, underneath some winter sweaters.

With his heart pounding, he returned to the bathroom, grabbed a roll of toilet paper to clean his camera with, and retreated to the production room.

The next morning, Mark awoke when Stephanie did. He watched her actions carefully. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but all he knew as that he was sure her actions would give something away. He got his answer a few hours later.

After breakfast, Stephanie went to use the bathroom, and Mark positioned himself outside the door, the box of tampons in hand. He listened. He held his breath. He definitely heard the creak of the cabinet doors opening. He definitely heard Stephanie rummaging through the contents of the cabinet. He heard her swear and hit the door. A few seconds later, he heard her flush the toilet for effect, and waited until the door swung open.

"Looking for these?" Mark asked when she emerged. He held up the box. She jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Mark. You scared me."

"Are you. Looking. For these?" he repeated.

"Mark…"

"Stephanie. Please. Don't…don't lie to me. Are you really pregnant?" She was silent. "Please," Mark begged again. "I…just don't lie. I want to know. You're not really pregnant, are you? Where's the pregnancy test you took? Why do you have _these_ in the bathroom, hidden?" He threw the box of tampons on the floor. "I don't get it. Why did you lie to me?" He restrained himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and pinning her against the wall, he was that angry. He punched the wall instead, making Stephanie jump a little bit. When he saw the look on her face, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Stephanie's heart pounded. She wasn't quite sure what he was capable of.

When Mark finished counting, he turned away from her and went to the closet and shoved his feet into his Converse. She followed him. "Mark?! Mark, where are you going?!" When he didn't answer, she begged, "It's not what it looks like! Just...listen to my side of the story, _please_!" He bent to tie his shoes and she knelt beside him. "Where are you going?!"

"Does it matter?" he snapped, no longer concerned with her feelings. Without another word, he left the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

A/N: I figured that Luc would call his lover by his first name. That's why Collins is referred to as "Tom". Just putting that out there. 

Also – WHO SAW ADAM PASCAL AND ANTHONY RAPP IN _RENT_ TODAY (8/8/07)? I DID, BABY! 8TH ROW CENTER! Was it amazing? Incredible? Orgasmic? Why, yes. Yes it was.


	15. You’re So Last Summer

_You could slit my throat  
__And with my one last gasping breath  
__I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt  
_Taking Back Sunday, "You're So Last Summer"

It was a long time before Mark spoke to Stephanie again. It was she who broke their silent treatment after two weeks. She never imagined him being this livid about this—but she really couldn't blame him. He didn't speak to her. He spent the majority of his days either in his production room or at Collins'. He slept on the couch, suddenly struck with insomnia, and only sleeping for four to six hours a night.

Mark returned home from visiting Collins one evening around ten PM; he sat on the bed to remove his socks. Stephanie was sitting up, Indian-style, wearing another one of her silky nightgowns. This one was deep crimson, with cream-colored lace trim. "Mark?" He didn't respond. "Please, Mark…we need to talk about this."

Mark balled up his socks and threw them in the hamper. He began to change into his pajamas, continuing to ignore her.

"I know you're still not talking to me, but just listen, okay?" she said. "Maybe something will get through to you."

He sighed audibly, muttering something under his breath, as she continued.

"I…I want you to know that I only did it because I thought you didn't love me anymore," she admitted softly. He sat on the bed, his back to her. "I don't want our marriage to fail, Mark. I love you. I love you so much and when you act so distant…and you don't talk to me…and…well; you act like you don't want me anymore, like I'm a toy that you've gotten tired of playing with." She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. "I don't understand why you're acting like this. I know that it's hard that Collins—" she cut herself off when she saw Mark's shoulders tense. He turned his head to glare at her.

"You keep talking," he said, "but all you're doing is offering excuses. I don't hear an apology."

She paused. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could erase it. It was a stupid idea; I thought it would work, but Mark—I realized something."

"What?"

"That…it didn't work. You were just as distant as ever."

"So…you're saying I _deserved_ this?"

"No. It was an experiment."

"So, I'm an experiment?"

"No!"

"Then _what_, Steph? _What_?" Mark shot. She bit her lip.

"I'm just sorry," she said softly. Mark sighed. "I want forgiveness. Can you forgive me?" She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

After a few moments, Mark placed his hand over hers. A truce had fallen.

* * *

A few days after Mark and Stephanie reconciled, Mark's anger cooled off. As his own form of an apology (because that's the kid of person he was), he came home one afternoon with a gift for Stephanie: a small orange and white kitten. Mark figured that what Stephanie really needed was a companion, a small furry replacement for himself. Stephanie was surprised and moved by this gesture, and was quickly taken by the kitten, who, after further inspection, was revealed to be male. She named the kitten Spike, and Spike wasted no time in becoming Stephanie's shadow. Spike was constantly in her lap, on her shoulder, or on Mark's pillow when Mark wasn't in bed. Within the same amount of time, Mark discovered that not only was he mildly allergic to Spike, but that Spike hated him. Spike had seemed cute and cuddly when Mark handled him at the shelter, but looks were quite deceiving. Whenever Mark entered the room—especially if he dared to sit next to Stephanie—Spike made it a point to scamper up to him and dig his kitty claws into Mark's leg, scratching him through his jeans. 

Mark actually stopped complaining about Spike within days, since Stephanie offered the same excuse over and over again: Kittens _claw_; that's what they _do_.

Mark was fighting a losing battle and he knew it, but if giving Stephanie a kitten would help heal the rift between them, he was willing to make the sacrifice. He tried to convince himself of this as he trudged up East Houston to meet Joanne for lunch at Katz's Deli.

It was nearly Labor Day by this point, but the heat did not yield. Mark wore his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, along with slacks and a button-down shirt, having just come from a meeting with NBC. They were pleased with his work, as always, but they were disappointed in the low quality. _Low quality_, Mark muttered to himself. He was working with some of the best equipment he could afford. If they wanted a higher quality, they could damn well buy him new computers and editing tools.

Joanne was waiting for him outside of the deli, wearing a pair of light brown pants and a lacy baby blue V-neck top. She wore a matching blue scarf around her head, gypsy-style, and gold teardrop earrings. Her brown purse was slung over her shoulder. "Hey," she greeted him with a smile. They embraced. "I'm glad you could make it." She pecked his cheek.

"So am I," he replied grimly.

"I'm guessing your meeting didn't go well?" she opened the door for him and they stepped inside, greeted by the wonderful clamor of a deli in New York City.

"The short answer is, I'm thinking of going back to school."

"That's great!"

"You think so?"

"Yes!" Joanne squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "Go back to school to do what?"

"Get a teacher's certificate, I guess. I could teach, right?"

"It's like I tell my kids: you can do anything you set your mind to. What are you having?" Joanne craned her neck to read the menu printed on the wall. "I think I want pastrami."

"I don't think my stomach can handle food right now."

"Oh come on. What do you want?"

"A better life."

Joanne rolled her eyes. "I'm just going to order for you, then."

Several minutes later, they were seated across from each other, two plates heaping with pastrami and kosher dill pickles in front of them. Joanne watched Mark pick at his food.

"Don't let that meeting bother you," she advised, gesturing with her pickle. "You're one of the best editors they've got and they know it. They won't cut you loose."

"It's not that," Mark replied with a sigh. He pushed his plate off to the side and rested his elbows on the table. "It's…I just…stress. With everything."

Joanne nodded slowly. "It has been a stressful year so far," she agreed. She wiped pickle juice from her fingers and peeled off the top slice of rye bread from her sandwich. "But that's not it, Mark. Something else is bothering you."

Mark peered at her over the tops of his glasses. "How can you tell?"

"I have a very temperamental child at home. And a six-year-old," she joked. "Please? Talk to me?"

Another sigh. "It's Stephanie."

"Oh. Here we go…" she muttered. She smeared brown mustard onto the pastrami and picked up the top few slices with her fork. "Saw this coming a mile away."

"I don't think we're…working out."

"I've noticed."

"Have you?"

She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and nodded. "We haven't said anything because we thought—"

"'We'? _Maureen_ is discussing _my_ marriage?"

"Don't say it like that, please. Despite all her faults, she's still my wife."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. But—you've really been…you know, talking about us?"

"We're observant," Joanne admitted. "Like how you never pay attention to her. She's like a dog waiting to be thrown a bone."

"Nice: comparing my wife to a dog."

"That's not what I meant. Look, I'm just saying, that if you don't start paying more attention to her, things are going to fall apart. No happy endings. There's only so much a woman can take. You've witnessed my relationship with Maureen. She would act out to get attention from me. That's why she had problems with cheating and with flirting. She had a constant need to be stroked, like a kitten."

"I got Stephanie a kitten."

"But once we realized that the problem was a little bit of me and a little bit of her, things ran more smoothly."

"I'm trying. I really am," Mark stressed. "It's just so hard to—"

"Please someone other than yourself? That's how marriage works, you know. Fifty-fifty. Give and take. Maybe you should try couples' therapy."

"Therapy? You're serious?" he raised an eyebrow.

"It worked for me and Maureen. I should give you his card," Joanne reached for her purse and rummaged through for her wallet, which she opened and pulled out a white business card. She held it out to Mark. He didn't take it. Joanne rolled her eyes and put it on the table in front of him. _Dr. Raymond Sutton, PhD/MFT/LPC_. "You never know. It might do you a world of good." Mark frowned at the card with contempt. "Just keep it, okay? It might come in handy."

"Yeah. Sure." Mark slipped the card in his back pocket. "Where'd you find this guy, anyway?"

"Dr. Sutton? From the most unlikely of sources," Joanne said with an ironic smile. "The one and only Benjamin Coffin the Third."

Mark nearly choked on his food. "Y—what?! How?"

Joanne shook her head, "Believe it or not, one of my partners is his divorce attorney. Imagine the shock on my face when he stopped by my office 'to say hi'."

"Divorce lawyer? He and Allison…?"

"Oh, yeah. You know, he screwed around almost their entire marriage."

"Yeah, I knew. Angel's funeral?"

"Right. Anyway, when he dropped by, he offered to take me out for coffee, to talk and catch up. He and his new wife had just started seeing Dr. Sutton and, well, he called me about a year later to tell me that Benjamin Coffin the Fourth had arrived."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I kid you not. Mark, I'm serious. We don't want you to end up miserable. We love Stephanie; we love you. We want you both to be happy. Please, please try, okay?"

Mark gave a small nod. "I'll do my best."

* * *

A/N: Helga makes a triumphant return! And upon her return, I've mapped out the rest of the story—it should be complete, hopefully, within the next two or three weeks! Definitely before I leave for my vacation at the end of the month. Stay tuned, folks! 

Yes, Spike the kitten is named after Anthony Rapp's cat.

Speaking of whom, you guys are going to hate me but—I scored discount tickets ($55) to see Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp AGAIN on 8/9/07 and sat 6th row center orchestra! Twice in two days! I am such a whore … met Anthony, Tamyra Gray, Luther Creek and Nicolette Hart afterwards (but not Adam, oh no…he's too good for the stage door…). My friend Gaz gave Anthony a white stuffed monkey. It was amusing.


	16. Here I Go Again

_I'm just another heart in need of rescue  
__Waiting on love's sweet charity  
_Whitesnake, "Here I Go Again"

Nearly every night since the first time he'd been there with Mark upon his return into the city, Roger found himself at the Life Café. He didn't necessarily go to eat, or to get drunk, like he had done in the past. He went to see Lucien.

The young blonde bartender had captured his attention from day one, and he, for some reason, couldn't keep himself from thinking about her. He pursued her. He gained her friendship. Occasionally, he would arrive as her shift was ending and they would go out to eat.

They talked a lot. The Life Café was far from its heyday, though it still did decent business, but whenever Lucien had some downtime, she and Roger were talking.

Roger loved to hear Lucien talk. He loved hearing about her every aspect. He listened hungrily, soaking up her every word like tomato sauce with a slice of bread. He listened to her talk about music, about her mom, about her son. She talked about celebrities she'd encountered at the Life. She idolized Debbie Harry and Courtney Love. She liked her BLT's with mustard, not mayo.

He offered very little information about himself. He didn't like to talk about himself. He preferred not to. Lucien would ask him questions, which he answered vaguely. Whenever she probed him for more, he would not yield. He wanted to tell her more, but he was afraid.

He didn't want Lucien falling in love with him. There was a definite attraction between them, albeit an unspoken one. He was already falling for her, but he could live with the pain of separation. He wasn't sure if she could. He kept his guard up. It killed him to act so distant and cold.

The first week of September, Roger was sitting at the bar, smoking a cigarette which he would occasionally rest in a plastic ashtray shaped like a heart. Lucien sauntered over after serving a customer at the far end of the bar. She was wearing a faded white tee printed with a pattern of cherries.

"Hey, Roger," she greeted with a smile. "What'll it be? Jack and Coke?"

"You know me too well," he replied.

"Coming right up."

"How's your day been?"

"Long and uneventful, the way I like it—at least I get off in an hour," she grinned as she looked underneath the bar for the Jack Daniels. "I took Caleb to the park for a few hours today. He fell off the monkey bars and skinned his knee and he wasn't a happy camper after that, so I had to take him home." She turned and reached up for a new bottle of Jack Daniels, making her shirt ride up just a bit, revealing her lower-back tattoo.

Roger smiled slightly. Hearing Lucien talk about Caleb made him think of Will, which in turn made him wonder how big baby Sarah had grown, which in turn lead to the consideration of Roger actually picking up the phone and giving Calvin a call. "He must hate it when you leave for work."

"Oh, he forgets all about me once my kid sister pops in a video and gives him a cookie."

"Your sister, huh? Not your husband or boyfriend?"

"You're slick. No, not my husband or boyfriend. Neither one of them exist."

"Raising your son alone?"

"For the time being."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Roger replied. "My mom was a single parent for the majority of her life. My dad walked out before I was a year old and her second husband died when I was about nine. She was a waitress: worked herself to the bone for my brother and me." Roger bit the inside of his cheek. That was quite possibly the most information he'd ever given her.

Lucien slid Roger's drink to him on a coaster. "What about you? No wife or girlfriend?"

Roger took a long sip of his drink before answering, "I'm a widower, actually."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She leaned over the bar, her elbows resting on the top.

"She's been gone for a long time. Seven years."

"How long were you married?"

"Two years. We got married on Valentine's Day."

"Can I ask how she…?"

Another pause. Roger took a hit on his cigarette and a long pull of his drink. "She had AIDS."

Lucien's face softened. "I'm sorry," she repeated. She paused and then parted her lips to say something. Roger could tell by the look on her face that she was searching for the right words, the right questions. He knew what she wanted to ask. Roger leaned in as well and put a hand on hers. "Lucien," he whispered, "its okay. You can ask me."

"A-are you…do you have…I mean, do you…" she cleared her throat.

"Yes," he said simply.

She averted her gaze.

"Don't be sorry," he said to her. "I'm not." He paused. "Are you alright?"

Lucien glanced at him then locked her eyes with his. She bit her lower lip, leaned in and planted a small, lovely kiss on his lips.

* * *

In the dim bedroom, the late afternoon sun peeking through the curtains, Lucien ran her hand over the tattoo on Roger's chest, Mimi's name right over his heart. "Who's Mimi? Your wife?" 

"Mm-hmm," Roger said, one hand behind his head as he leaned back against the pillows.

"Do you miss her?" Lucien rolled over onto her stomach, her arms folded. She rested her head on them, facing him, her blue eyes bright and ringed with smeared eyeliner.

"Every day," he replied. He reached out and stroked Lucien's hair, the pink-streaked-bleach-blonde. On anyone else, it would look like a mess, but on her, it was sexy and wild. "You're so beautiful, you know that?"

"Stop," Lucien blushed, burying her face in the bed sheets. "So are you."

"I'm ugly on the inside."

"Roger," Lucien propped herself up on one elbow. "Why do you have to put yourself down?"

"Do I do it that often?"

"I think you have a beautiful soul," she left a trail of kisses down his naked chest.

"I think I should go." Roger sat up and reached for his jeans.

"What? Why?" she grabbed his elbow.

He yanked his arm away. "I'm not here to stay, Lucien. And I'm not looking back when I leave." He slipped out from underneath the covers and pulled his pants back on.

"I—"

"Would you follow me?" his voice had a nasty undertone. "Would you uproot your kid, your life, to follow me around? I'm a drifter, Lucien. I don't have a permanent home. All I have is an old bus, a box of clothes and a guitar."

"Why can't you stay?" she asked softly. "Why can't you stay with me?"

"Why would you want me?" Roger retorted. "You don't know me; you're not in love with me."

"You don't know that." She sat up in bed, the covers wrapped around her naked body.

"Why would you want me?" he repeated. He stood. "Could you hand me my shirt?"

Lucien, trying to hide her tears, reached over to the other side of the bed for Roger's red button-down. Roger peered once more at the lower back tattoo, which he knew now, was a vine of red and purple flowers. She also had a tribal sun between her shoulder blades, and wolf paw prints on her pelvis. She threw him his shirt and it hit him in the face.

"Look, I'm sorry," Roger said, shaking it out and putting it on. "But I don't think we can…be anything."

"Is it because of your wife?" she whispered. "Is it because you still love her?"

"It's because of me," he insisted. "I didn't want this to happen, Lucien. This was a mistake."

She sat up straight, as if a steel rod had been implanted in her spine. "So, I was a mistake?"

"No. You're not the mistake. What happened was a mistake."

"We made love. I don't call that a mistake."

"You don't understand, do you?" He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "I never wanted you to get attached. I didn't think you could handle this."

Lucien scurried out of bed and put on her bikini panties, printed with black-and-white checkers. She stood, topless, in front of him. He moaned inwardly. "I don't understand you. Why are you pushing me away? Maybe _you're_ the one who can't handle it." Roger didn't answer. He just pulled on his shoes. "Get out."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"You heard me. Get out. Get the fuck out of my apartment." She stomped her foot like a child. "Get out _now_, or I'm calling the cops."

Roger was stunned. He swallowed hard. "Let me finish getting dressed," he said calmly. "Then I'll leave."

Lucien was stony-faced. She glared at him as Roger quickly finished. He moved passed her to exit the bedroom. He paused for a few seconds, wondering if he should say anything, maybe an apology, but words failed him. He left the apartment.


	17. Is It Any Wonder

_Sometimes  
I get the feeling that I'm  
Stranded in the wrong time  
__When love is just a lyric  
__In a children's rhyme  
_Keane, "Is It Any Wonder"

In early September, the weather had yet to turn cool. School was back in session. Stephanie happily returned to her grammar school students, another batch of two dozen little minds just waiting to be shaped. It thrilled her, it really did. Mark was suffering from a dry spell of clients. He hadn't had a project for several weeks.

Collins was in bad shape. They all knew it, but they never spoke of it, least of all Roger. The rest of the group would put on happy faces for Collins and Luc, crack jokes and tell stories, but once they were out of earshot, they crumbled. Mark once embraced Maureen for a good fifteen minutes while she cried, standing in the hallway of the apartment building, her face buried in his shoulder.

Roger, Mark noticed, was suddenly becoming withdrawn and quiet, bordering on sullen. At first, he assumed that he was depressed at Collins's impending demise, but Mark had a feeling there was more to it. Roger, however, refused to discuss the matter with Mark.

"It helps to talk," Mark admonished. "We don't even have to talk about Collins. We can talk about…other things."

"There's nothing to talk about," Roger insisted. "I'm fine." But Mark remained in serious doubt.

Mark returned home from Collins's place late one evening and dropped his coat on the living room couch, even though he knew damn well that Stephanie hated it when he did that. It was late. He'd missed dinner. Ever since he and Stephanie had made peace, he really had been trying to change. He tried to be home for dinner. He kept in touch with her when he was out of the house. When there wasn't a deadline hanging over his head and when he could actually sleep, he was in bed with her at a reasonable hour. He was trying. He didn't want to go into couples' therapy. He wanted to try to fix this on his own.

He called her name, "Steph?" and was greeted by echoes. He called her again and this time received an answer:

"In the bedroom." Her voice was low, almost drowsy. Mark glanced at his watch—not even nine-thirty. Was she sleeping? He went into their bedroom. The light was on, as well as the television perched on the dresser. The sound was low; she wasn't watching. A black and white movie that Mark didn't know the title of was playing on the screen, something with Marilyn Monroe in it. Mark glanced at the full-figured blonde as she sang in a breathy voice in front of a bandstand, "_I want to be loved by you…_"

"I'm sorry I missed dinner," he said by way of apology. "I got caught up. I should have called."

"It's fine," Stephanie replied curtly. It was then Mark noticed the suitcase on the bed—half-filled.

"What's this?" he asked. "What is this? Steph, what's going on?"

Stephanie dropped a few of her t-shirts into the suitcase. "You tell me." She couldn't, or wouldn't, look him in the eye.

"Is this about dinner? I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I've been doing good with the dinner thing lately—"

"It's not just about dinner. It's about dinner last night and the night before that and the night before that and the night before that. It's about you sitting on the couch watching your movies rather than sleep with your wife," Stephanie clenched her fists as tears welled up in her eyes. "It's about your work. I've taken a backseat. I'm sorry, Mark. I…I can't do this anymore."

"Do what, be married?"

Stephanie bit her lip and nodded, grabbing her hairbrush off her nightstand and throwing it into the suitcase. She went into the bathroom, grabbed a bag filled with her toiletries and tucked that in as well. "The divorce papers will be arriving soon. I filed this morning."

"When this morning?" he asked frantically. "What did I miss?"

"That's a loaded question, Mark."

"How long have you been contemplating this?" Mark asked, sinking into the bed.

"A few weeks," she admitted after a beat.

"A few—shit, Steph, please don't do this to me," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Please, not now."

"It's too late," she said plainly. As she went to tuck in a pair of shoes into the case, Mark grabbed her by the wrist.

"I love you," he said, staring into her eyes, which she quickly averted.

"Again, too late," she said. "Please, let go of my wrist."

"I can't let you go. I love you. I want you."

"If you had told me this a few weeks ago, I wouldn't be leaving. Let go, Mark."

"I can't. Please, Steph, one more shot. I'll—"

"You'll what? Try harder? Mark, it's been five fucking years! You wait until _now_ to try harder?" Stephanie yanked her wrist away. "I'm sorry, Mark, but you're killing me. I'm dying."

Mark felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. Death was a touchy subject with him right now. That was a low blow for her. "Collins is dying."

"I know."

"You're punishing me because Collins is dying."

"_Punishing_ you?"

"How can you do this to me? Why? Why now?"

She finished packing and zipped her suitcase closed. "I'll call."

"I'm sure you will."

Stephanie pulled out the handle on the case and rolled it off the bed. As it hit the floor, she began to tug it out of the room, grabbing her gray pea coat on the way out. She glanced at Mark over her shoulder, but he remained unmoving. Sighing, she turned on her heels and stalked out of the room.

Mark listened to her leave, the sound of the front door opening and closing. He listened to the wheels of the suitcase make a thwacking sound as it hit each step of the walk-up. Once he heard a car start, however, he jumped up and went to the bedroom window. He watched Stephanie's white Chevy pull out of its side street parking spot and down the block. She was really leaving and there was nothing he could do about it. Even though part of him wanted to jump into a taxi follow her, he remained, watching her taillights disappear into the darkness, further and further away from him.

He wondered if she was crying, too.

* * *

"Hello?" 

"Amanda," Mark said his mother-in-law's name as pleasantly as he could over the phone, smiling to offset the gag reflex. "Is Stephanie there?"

"Mark," Amanda said brusquely. "Still can't say hello, can you?"

Mark bit his lower lip. "Hello. How are you, Amanda?"

"Getting over pleurisy."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is Stephanie at home?"

A pause. "She does not want to speak to you."

"So…she's there?"

"Mark, _please_. I don't know what you did—"

"I didn't do anything! I've been—"

"Don't call here again, Mark. If Stephanie wants to speak to you, she'll pick up the phone and call you herself."

"Amanda—"

"Good-bye, Mark." _Click_.


	18. How To Be Dead

_Why can't you shoulder the blame  
'Cause both my shoulders are heavy  
From the weight of us both  
You're a big boy, now so let's not talk about growth  
You've not heard a single word I have said.  
Oh, my God.  
_Snow Patrol, "How To Be Dead"

The divorce papers arrived, served by a dour looking older woman in a navy blue business suit, but Mark didn't sign them. He didn't want anyone to know that Stephanie had left. He wanted to ignore the fact that he awoke to a cold and empty bed, ate his meals alone, spent his days in his production room until he emerged in the early afternoon to spend time with Collins and everyone else. Occasionally he could be lured out by Roger or Joanne, but more often than not, he stayed to himself. She'd left Spike behind, a sure indication that she might be coming back.

Weeks passed. The twenty-fifth of September was Mark's thirty-second birthday and October tenth was Joanne's thirty-seventh. Luc insisted on having everyone over for a small, impromptu joint birthday party at the apartment. When Mark was reluctant, never a big fan of having his birthday celebrated, Luc was persistent. "I'll make a strawberry shortcake," he enticed, "from scratch, _oui_? Come, it will be fun."

And so Mark found himself being forced to attend his own birthday party. He arrived a few minutes late, with Maureen and Joanne on his heels, the kids in tow.

"Oh, we're right behind the birthday boy," Maureen smiled. "I guess we're not all that late."

"Well, considering Mark and I are the guests of honor," Joanne said, holding Nina on her hip, "they can't really start without us." She kissed Mark's cheek. "Happy belated."

"Happy upcoming," Mark replied with a small smile. He kissed her back and then gave one to Maureen as well. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

"Can't you pretend to be happy?" Maureen asked him with a playful glare.

"Happy about being thirty-two?"

"You think I'm thrilled about being thirty-seven?" Joanne rolled her eyes. "I'm almost forty, for godssake."

"No, no, Mark has this complex about growing older," Maureen explained. "It was murder celebrating his birthday every year. I'd get him a cupcake with a candle in it and he'd have a nervous breakdown."

"I did not!" Mark insisted.

Maureen smirked and then raised an eyebrow. "Hey…was that—no, never mind."

"What?"

"I thought I saw a gray hair."

As Mark frantically ran his fingers through his hair, Joanne giggled and knocked on the door. Luc answered, wearing khakis and a baby-blue button down.

"Hey, y'all," he smiled; opening the door and letting them come inside. "Glad you're here."

"Well, thanks for having us," Maureen smiled, greeting Luc with a kiss.

"Oh, it's the least I could do for the birthday boy and girl," he said as they all filed in. He held his arms out and Joanne passed Nina over to him. The girl giggled with delight at seeing Luc.

"Don't say the B-word in front of Mark," Maureen admonished. "He might just crack this time."

"Oh-oh. Aren't we a little young for a midlife crisis, Mark?" Luc teased.

"I had a midlife crisis on my bar mitzvah," Mark muttered.

"Cheer up," Luc patted Mark on the shoulder. "You're not over the hill yet."

"If I ever make it over the hill, I'm going to take a nap. Where's Roger?"

At the sound of his name, Roger emerged from Collins's bedroom, holding his guitar by the neck. Maureen spotted him first. "Hey!" she exclaimed, hugging him. She kissed his cheek. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said softly.

"You have your guitar out. Are you playing?"

"I was. For a bit. Just some random tunes."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You look a little ashy."

"I'm fine, Maureen," he snapped.

She gave him a hard look. "Fine, then."

They gathered in the bedroom. Luc sitting on the bed with Collins; Mark sitting beside the bed in an armchair; Maureen in Collins's high-backed office chair; Joanne in a chair pulled from the kitchen. Roger sat on the floor with his guitar, playing softly for Nina's amusement. She stared at the guitar as if it was a bowl of ice cream. Occasionally, she would reach out and pluck a string, giggling. Hunter busied himself with a coloring book and crayons that Luc had bought for him.

During a break in the conversation, Mark took a deep breath and said, in a low voice, "Stephanie left me."

Collins' face fell. "Oh, Mark. No."

"Left you?" Joanne repeated. "Like…_left_ you?"

"Like, packed up her shit and drove off. At least she had the decency to tell me in person, that's all I can say," Mark said, looking down at his hands, fingers interlocking. It was only then he realized he was still wearing his wedding band. He went to remove it, but Collins put his hand over Mark's.

"She'll change her mind," he said.

He paused. "I don't think so." He didn't tell them about the divorce papers.

"Don't take it off just yet. Let her cool down for a bit. She'll change her mind."

Mark slid the band back onto his finger with a defeated sigh. He would slip it into his pocket once he left for the day.

Roger sulked, as he had ten years ago when Angel was in Collins' place. He had barely spoken all day. Mark had half a mind to reach out and whack Roger upside the head just to bring him out of his funk. But all it would do was drive him away.

After another two hours, Luc announced that he had to go pick up dinner. "I know I said I'd cook, but I just don't have the energy lately," he said. "I did make the cake though. But an entire meal for eight people just isn't doable for me right now."

"I can go get the food," Maureen offered.

"No, I'll do it," Mark replied.

"Mark, don't be silly. This is _your_ birthday we're celebrating!"

"And the least I can do is go get the food."

"Are you sure?" Luc asked.

"Positive. I don't mind at all."

"Well…all right," Luc said. "As long as you don't mind." He went to the desk in the bedroom and went to his wallet, pulling out a fifty dollar bill and pressing it into Mark's hand. "I appreciate this. The order's under my name."

"It's no problem. Roger?"

Roger glanced up from his chair in the corner. "Yeah?"

"Come take a walk with me."

* * *

"What's up with you?" Mark asked once they were on the street. 

"What's up with _me_?" Roger shot back.

"Yeah. You're just sitting there like a lump, shutting everyone out. It's bringing everyone down."

"Are you sure that's me and not the fact that our best friend is dying?"

"We're all trying to make the most of it."

"Make the most of it?"

"Yes. Collins is dying, true, but let's try to cherish the time we have left with him."

"That's very Hallmark, Mark, but don't you see—I'm next!"

Mark stopped walking and looked at his friend. "What are you talking about?"

"First Angel…then Mimi. Now Collins. I'm next."

"No, you're not," Mark replied firmly.

"How do you know? Who knew Angel would go so fast? Who knew Collins would get this lymphoma? And Mimi—" Roger cut himself off, his hand mindlessly went to toy with Mimi's wedding ring around his neck, which was strung alongside his. "I can't do this, Mark. Not again."

Mark pulled Roger the rest of the way to the deli that Luc had ordered dinner from. Once inside, he hugged his friend tightly. "It's going to be okay, Roger. I promise."

"I don't want to die."

"You're not going to."

"Not today, but I will."

The two men pulled apart. Mark's heart nearly cracked in two when he saw Roger's eyes filled with tears. "Sometimes I just miss her so much…"

Mark put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "I know, it's tough."

"It shouldn't be. Why haven't I moved on?"

"Maybe because you and Mimi were truly in love. Not like me and Steph. She's probably moved on already."

"That's not true. It's only been a month."

"I think she might have been seeing someone behind my back," Mark added quietly. He wasn't sure if this was true or not, but he sure as hell wasn't going to rule it out.

Roger chewed his lower lip. He'd been through this with Mark before. Ever since Maureen had left him badly burned, Mark always had a sneaking suspicion that every one of his subsequent girlfriends was cheating on him. He never got over it and it had ruined many a relationship—until he married Stephanie. For a while, Roger thought his best friend had made a change for the better, until this.

"I don't think…our love for each other was very strong in the first place," Mark continued. "No love…just attraction. You were lucky, Roger, to have found Mimi. That was real."

Roger crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall of the deli. He didn't want to hear Mark preach again. Mark felt miffed.

"Let's just get the food and go," Mark muttered. He approached the deli counter and told the cashier the name on the food order. Once Mark paid the man, he handed one of the plastic bags to Roger and said, "Make yourself useful."

Roger scowled as he followed Mark out of the deli. "What the fuck's your problem?"

Mark whirled on his friend, "_My_ problem? Shit, Roger, you're almost forty years old and you're the one acting like a child!"

"Don't get pissed at me just because your wife left you!"

Mark's blood ran cold. He swallowed hard. "That was harsh." Roger remained silent. Mark sighed and shook his head, "Let's…let's just try to get through the rest of the day without gnashing at each other, okay?"

"All right."

"Fine."

They walked, heads down, back towards the apartment.


	19. All That I've Got

_I'll be just fine  
__Pretending I'm not  
__I'm far from lonely  
__And it's all that I've got  
_The Used, "All That I've Got"

Roger reluctantly moved in with Mark two weeks later. He wouldn't reveal where he'd been staying previously, but he was seemingly gracious of Mark's hospitality. He could see, also, that Mark did not want to be alone.

"What if Steph comes back?" Roger asked as he put his bags down in the spare bedroom once Mark flipped the light switch. It was sparse: a brass daybed, a dresser, a desk and chair. The furniture looked second-hand, but Roger could have cared less. The floor beneath his feet was wooden, but there was a blue shag rug by the daybed. Or maybe it was gray. The dimness of the room made it difficult to tell.

"She won't," Mark replied, so surely, so forcefully that it kind of scared Roger. He glanced around the room. It was painted yellow, a soft baby duck yellow, a fuzzy yellow that reminded Roger of blankets and pacifiers. He had a sinking feeling that, if Steph and Mark had had a kid, this would have been their room.

Mark sighed. "I'll let you unpack." He turned to leave.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?" He faced Roger.

"Was Steph…did you…I mean, was she ever—"

Mark froze. _How the hell did he guess?_ "The same year we were married," he answered reluctantly. "A few months after our wedding, she was pregnant. But…she lost it, in her fourth month."

"I'm sorry."

"How'd you…I mean, we didn't tell anyone."

"The room. The color."

"Oh. Steph did that, when she found out she was pregnant. I told her she was rushing things," Mark said softly. "Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all," Roger shook his head. He cleared his throat. "I'm an uncle again, did I tell you?"

"No. Congratulations. Calvin and Layla had another baby?"

"Yeah, a little girl. Her name's Sarah. Cal named her after our grandmother."

"How old is Will now?" Mark leaned against the doorframe.

"Eight, can you believe it?" Roger hoisted one of his bags onto the bed. The mattress squealed.

"Hardly," Mark gave a small sideways smile. "Makes me feel old."

"The fact that you're married makes me feel old." Roger unzipped his bag and rifled through it for his medications. "The fact that Joanne and Maureen have kids makes me feel old." He no longer took AZT, but rather a cocktail that HIV/AIDS patients were being prescribed now. "I'm sorry, by the way, for missing your wedding."

Mark pursed his lips. This was a touchy subject. "It's okay."

"I know you wanted me as your best man."

"Collins filled in."

"I heard from Maureen. Mark, I really am sorry. All those years you were there for me—that one time I wasn't there for you."

"You're here now. That's all that matters. I appreciate it." A silence settled in. Roger rolled one of his little orange pill bottle in his palm. Mark broke it moments later, "Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Eat?"

"Nah, no thanks. I'm still full from lunch," Roger replied. "Actually, some water, maybe? I need to…" he held up the bottles.

"Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I'll be right back." Mark headed off in the direction of the kitchen. Roger took this opportunity to slip off his shoes and wiggle his toes, making fists with his feet, thinking about how he really didn't want to be here.

* * *

Roger awoke at four AM from a dream that he was falling. His eyes snapped open like window shades just as he hit the ground, and was now unable to get back to sleep. He wandered into the living room, to find Mark sitting on the couch, watching a video. 

"Hey," Mark said in greeting, noticing Roger out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey. Mind if I smoke in here?" he turned the Marlboro pack over in his hands.

"I don't care."

Roger tapped a cigarette out of the pack and positioned it between his lips, lighting it with a lighter. The somewhat sweet smell of tobacco wafted into the air. "What are you watching?"

Mark paused. "My wedding video, from when I married Steph," he added, as if it needed clarification.

Roger turned his attention to the television. Stephanie was wearing a medieval-style wedding gown, with a square neckline and an empire waist. Mark looked uncomfortable in his black tux, which had a sage green vest beneath the jacket. They were already reciting their vows.

_"Repeat after me, please," _the rabbi was saying. One thing Mark's mother had insisted on during the wedding planning: if her only son was to marry a _shikse_, at least have a Jewish ceremony. _"'I, Stephanie Rose Braddock'."_

_"I, Stephanie Rose Braddock,"_ Stephanie recited.

_"'Take you, Mark Benjamin Cohen…"_

Roger chortled, "_Benjamin_? I never knew that was your middle name."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "You never asked."

"I never cared."

Mark smirked and rolled his eyes. He knew Roger's middle name, Jay, from when Roger married Mimi.

Roger watched the wedding video as he smoked his cigarette, ashing it into an empty coffee mug, studying the devoted puppy dog look in Stephanie's eyes, the unreadable expression on Mark's face. Nervous? Regretful? Trying to repress projectile vomiting? Regardless, anyone could plainly see, just from the wedding video, how utterly in love Stephanie was. After several minutes of silence between the two men, Roger reached out and thwacked Mark on the back of the head.

"Hey!" Mark snapped, whirling around. "What the fuck was that for?!"

Roger shrugged and turned around to retreat to the guest bedroom. "You know what that was for."

"That really hurt!"

"Get over it."

"Were you wearing a ring or something?! Jesus!"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Mark. Stop being such a baby. Grow the fuck up, find your wife and beg down on your knees for forgiveness." Roger slammed the door to the bedroom, the noise resonating throughout the apartment, acting as some sort of punctuation.

* * *

A/N: In my Rent fics, I tend to use the same names over and over with the canons, such as Mark Benjamin Cohen. At the time, Roger Jay Davis derived from the fact that Adam Pascal's middle name was said to be Jay…until Adam stated on his MySpace blog that he actually didn't have a middle name and that IMDB, specifically, had gotten it wrong. However, I never really found another name that flowed as well with Roger's, so Jay it remained. 

Oh, and "_shikse_" is the Yiddish word for a non-Jewish girl.


	20. Brick

_Can't you see  
It's not me you're dying for  
Now she's feeling more alone  
Than she ever has before  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
Off the coast and I'm headed nowhere  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
_Ben Folds Five, "Brick"

_NINE YEARS EARLIER—  
_Mimi had been pregnant once, but Roger never knew until long after the fact. At the first realization that she had skipped her period, she ran out and bought four pregnancy tests. She took them all, one right after the other, set the kitchen timer for five minutes, and waited outside the bathroom door, her knees curled up to her chest and her forehead almost touching her knees.

If she was pregnant, she didn't want it. She couldn't. She wasn't about to condemn an innocent life to a certain death, from a disease that would inevitably be passed down from mother to child.

The pregnancy tests confirmed it, four times. She was. She was pregnant and terrified. She went to the clinic to find out how far along she was. She gave the doctor a false name. The ultrasound, which Mimi did not want to see, told her she was eight weeks pregnant.

At first, she tried to cause a miscarriage. She slept on her stomach and, in the morning, tried rolling out of bed and tried to hit the floor, causing an impact to her abdomen, but all she ended up doing was bruising her tailbone. She starved herself for two days, but decided on a different route when she collapsed onstage at the Catscratch. She tried to throw herself down the stairs, but only rolled down three steps before her foot caught in the handrail, thwarting her attempt.

Finally, after fretting for two weeks, she started asking the other Catscratch girls for help. She was sure that nearly every girl in the place had had at least one abortion. One she told the girls she had a "problem that needed to be taken care of", they knew exactly what she was talking about.

One girl suggested Ex-Lax. More than one suggested a coat hanger or knitting needle, a thought that Mimi found repulsive. There were old wives tales of eating greens and drinking quinine, remedies Mimi didn't trust. One girl slipped her the name and address of a woman in Boro Park who could "get the job done"—a strange neighborhood, Hasidic, where Mimi would stick out like a sore thumb. Another girl offered the services of a woman who would come to your house and do it right in your own bedroom with a bulb syringe.

It turned out to be Camille, the Catscratch's oldest employee (if one considered twenty-eight to be "old", which Camille certainly didn't), who offered to take Mimi for a proper procedure.

Mimi hesitated at first, knowing that a "proper procedure" would cost her a fortune. But then she thought of the cache of money she had hidden under her mattress. Ever since she'd kicked her habit, she had a nice little treasury that she was saving for a rainy day. And right now, for Mimi, it was pouring. She agreed to Camille's offer.

She told Roger she was going out for lunch. She kissed his forehead and brushed his blonde hair out of his face. "I'll be back in a few hours," she said, grinning for him.

She met Camille a block away from the loft and, together, they headed towards midtown. The exact location, Camille revealed, was kept secret unless you called and made an appointment, which she had on Mimi's behalf. The building was nondescript. If it weren't for the pleasant blue sign out front that announced _The Lockhart Center_, Mimi probably would have missed it altogether. Below the name, the sign boasted: _Discreet one-hour visits_.

They entered the building, and Mimi began trembling. She glanced at Camille. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.

"Sure you can," Camille replied, rubbing Mimi's back, a sisterly gesture. "Just talk to the doctor first, alright? I promise it's going to be okay."

Mimi checked in with the receptionist, a smiling but serious-looking black woman in a peach nurses' smock. The woman gave her a form to fill out and Mimi sat, balancing the clipboard on her knobby knees, nibbling on the edge of the pen she was given.

"Have you ever done this before?" she asked Camille, who was rummaging through her purse.

"Twice," she replied casually. "First time I was fifteen."

"Fifteen," Mimi repeated. She was fifteen when she ran away from home.

"The second time I was eighteen," Camille continued. She found what she was looking for—a pack of gum—and offered a stick to Mimi, who shook her head. "I was about to graduate high school; go to college," she unwrapped a piece and tossed the crumpled foil back into her bag, "so the best idea was to get rid of it."

"You went to college?" Mimi asked as she filled out her full name, _Lucia Lourdes Marquez Davis_. Birth date, age, nationality: all mundane information. She dutifully filled out each blank space, checking "Yes" on _Are you HIV positive?_ and "No" on _Do you have any other sexually transmitted diseases?_

"For two years. But I had to drop out. I couldn't handle the bills, even after I started working at the Catscratch."

Mimi glanced at Camille. She really didn't look like someone who belonged at the Catscratch. She had a heart-shaped face and demeanor of a kindergarten teacher. She wore her pale blonde hair in a chignon at the back of her head, a few strands pulled loose to frame her face. Her cheeks were lightly dusted with blush; her plump lips were outlined with lip liner but not filled in. Her robin's egg blue eyes were framed with lashes darker than Mimi's, so dark that they probably didn't need the layers of mascara she wore. She wore a baby-pink t-shirt and a pair of jeans. A gray hooded sweatshirt was tied around her tiny waist. On her feet were well-worn tennis shoes. She looked more like a soccer mom.

Mimi completed her form and handed it back to the receptionist. She returned to her seat and slid her hands beneath her thighs as she sat. She began to swing her legs, to relieve her tension, but it made her feel childish so she stopped. She crossed her legs, then her ankles. Camille leafed through _Newsweek_.

The minutes ticked by. Camille blew a bubble with her gum and, just as it popped, the receptionist called out, "Lucia Davis?"

Mimi nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked at Camille, who smiled and gave an encouraging nod. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"No. Thanks," Mimi whispered.

Camille gave a sympathetic smile. "Then I'll wait for you right here."

Her heart beating wildly, Mimi followed the receptionist to a windowless examination room. She was surprised, and pleased. It looked like a regular doctor's office. She felt like she was here for a yearly physical, something required for the Catscratch Club. The receptionist handed her a hospital gown and asked her to change. "The doctor will be in shortly."

Mimi stripped off her clothes and slipped on the gown, keeping on her bra and panties. She folded her clothes neatly and put them in an even pile on a nearby chair. She unzipped her boots and placed them on the floor. She sat on the exam table, her legs crossed Indian-style. She wished she asked Camille to come in with her.

Minutes later, the doctor, a woman with coarse red hair and green eyes hiding behind large, round glasses entered the room.

"Lucia," the woman said warmly. "I'm Doctor Newman."

"Mimi," Mimi said softly as she shook the doctor's hand.

"Beg pardon?"

Mimi cleared her throat. "Y-you can call me Mimi."

"Mimi," the doctor repeated, "Like Mimi Rogers." Mimi didn't know who that was, but when she told Dr. Newman that her husband's name was Roger, she just gave a wide, easy smile and said. "Well, Mimi, let's get started."

Dr. Newman pulled up a stool on wheels, sat down, and explained the procedure to Mimi. An aspiration procedure, it was called. It was non-surgical and required no anesthesia. It would take only five minutes. She could walk out of the office in another fifteen.

"Really?" Mimi's eyes went wide. She tried to hide a smile of relief.

"Really," Dr. Newman replied. She put a comforting hand on Mimi's arm. "It's going to be alright. We're here to help you."

A small tear spilled down Mimi's cheek. Dr. Newman handed her a tissue. "Thank you," Mimi said. "I'm sorry."

Dr. Newman patted her shoulder. "It's quite alright. You're neither the first nor the last girl to cry in one of our exam rooms."

A nurse came into the room then with a rolling tray full of instruments. Mimi's heart began to pound.

"Just lay back," Dr. Newman advised, "and relax. I'll do all the work; let you know what I'm doing step-by-step, so nothing will come as a surprise."

"Okay," Mimi whispered, and did as she was told. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying to shut out the world around her.

* * *

The doctor kept her promise. The procedure took five minutes and, within the hour, she was told she could go home, with a warning to call if she experienced heavy bleeding and if she bled for more than seven days. 

Camille offered to take Mimi for something to eat as they left the clinic, but Mimi politely refused and mused out loud that she might call out of work that night. Camille nodded, understandingly.

Camille took Mimi home, hugging her tightly before Mimi climbed up the stairs to the loft. Roger was gone, which was a small relief. A note on the kitchen table told her that he'd gone out with Mark. His script was barely legible, as always, but Mimi put the note to her lips and kissed it. She folded it in quarters and pressed it into her palm. It was then that she decided that Roger must never, ever know. This would kill him, absolutely shatter him, if he knew.

She went into the bedroom, the exceedingly messy bedroom. Neither she nor Roger would be the first to admit they were good housekeepers. Clothes and shoes thrown everywhere. The bed was unmade, the sheets nearly stripped off and the blankets so askew they were practically on the floor, along wth a few pillows. The sagging double-sized mattress squealed on the bed frame when Mimi sat down on it. She was beginning to feel cramps in her lower belly. She lay down on the messy bed, curled up in a ball, fully clothed. She turned her head towards Roger's pillow, inhaled his scent. She felt a few tears fall before she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

A/N: Another story-behind-the-name: you're probably wondering why I chose to make Mimi's first name Lucia. Truth be told, I watched a video in my theater class of Baz Luhrmann's production of _La Boheme_, and, during its own "Light My Candle" scene (in which Mimi loses her house key, not her stash!), Mimi sings a line that says, "My name is Lucia, but they call me Mimi." 

Oh, and in case any of you wanted to know, I referred to a Marilyn Monroe movie a few chapters ago, in which she's singing "I Want To Be Loved By You". The movie is _Some Like It Hot _(a classic! very funny!).


	21. Rooftops

_All the love I've made  
I have no regrets  
If at all it's now I'm sad.  
Will we make a mark this time?  
Will we always say we tried  
Standing on the rooftops,  
Everybody scream your heart out  
_Lost Prophets, "Rooftops"

Roger awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding against his chest. This always happened when he dreamed about Mimi. He covered his face with his hands, trying to regulate his breathing, to slow down his heart rate. His long hair, in its low ponytail, hung heavy against his neck. He glanced at the digital clock on the desk: almost four in the morning. Gasping for air, Roger threw the covers off his legs and jammed his bare feet into his boots and carefully slipped out of the apartment, bare-chested, heading up towards the roof.

In the production room, Mark was wide awake and heard Roger leave. He wondered for a few moments if he should follow him. He didn't want to be alone, but maybe Roger did. He risked it, and, slipping on his Converse sneakers, went to the roof as well.

Roger was overlooking the New York City skyline, smoking a cigarette. His arms were drawn in tight, like he was cold, but the October air was unseasonably warm. It still felt like summer, though they were way into fall. It was almost Halloween.

Mark's sneakers crunched on the gravel of the roof, giving away his position. Roger turned and spotted him.

"Sorry," Mark murmured. Roger looked so intimidating standing like that, arms crossed over his bare chest, his ponytail over his shoulder, wearing nothing but plaid lounge pants and hiking boots. The cigarette dangled from his mouth like a gunslinger in an old Western. A silver chain around his neck glinted in the moonlight. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bother you. I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay," Roger replied hoarsely. "Are you?"

"I'm okay," Mark echoed. They were silent for a few moments before Mark shrugged and said, "I'll just…I'll go back to my computers."

"No, no, Mark. Wait," Roger said. "Come on. I've been alone long enough. You can join me if you want."

Mark gave a small smile. "Thank you." He approached Roger and leaned forward over the edge of the rooftop, overlooking the cityscape. "So, couldn't sleep?"

"No," was Roger's simple reply. "I just need to clear my head. You want a smoke?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding?"

Roger shrugged. "Never too late to start."

"Never too late to quit," Mark scolded.

Roger chuckled, which was punctuated with a cough. He sighed and took a drag of his cigarette. "I had a nightmare, Mark."

"You want to talk about it?"

He sighed again, shrugging. "I don't really remember. I kept seeing Mimi's face, over and over again. I've had it before. I always wake up the same way—like I was falling and I open my eyes as soon as I was supposed to hit the ground. "

Mark nodded slowly. His eyes went to the chain around Roger's neck. "Are those your rings?"

Roger glanced down. "Yeah, mine and Mimi's."

"I didn't know you had Mimi's wedding ring." He recalled Roger and Mimi's wedding: a short, simple ceremony on Valentine's Day, in the same church where Angel's funeral had been held. The bride wore a white vintage dress that Maureen had found at the Salvation Army, and carried a bouquet of red roses. Mimi couldn't find a pair of shoes that would go with her dress and wore a pair of dingy white flip-flops instead, even though the temperature dropped to thirty.

"Yeah. I've always had it." He exhaled deeply before taking another drag on his cigarette. "This heat. It's driving people nuts, isn't it?"

"How do you figure?"

"The heat always makes people do crazy shit. Ever hear of David Berkowitz?"

"Of course: Son of Sam."

"All of his murders occurred in the summer of 1977, one of the hottest summer on record in New York City."

"I remember. I was nine."

"I was eleven. I was living with my mom and Cal in Brooklyn, and whatever man my mom was currently dating at the time. It was nuts. Mom wouldn't let us out after dark. As soon as the streetlights came on, we had to come inside. She bought curtains that were so thick that the sunshine wouldn't come through them and she dyed her hair blonde."

"Why?"

"David Berkowitz targeted brunettes. I liked it when she was blonde. She looked more like me."

Mark, who had never met Roger's mother, asked, "You didn't look like her?"

Roger glanced sideways at Mark. "She'd always tell me that I look like my father; and that she hated my father."

_Ouch_. Mark didn't know how to respond to this, so he just stayed silent. The faint noise of cars making their way through city traffic and pedestrians spilling out of bars could be overheard. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed that on Roger's chest, over his heart, Mimi's name was tattooed in an ornate script.

"How come you don't want kids, Mark?" Roger blurted suddenly.

Mark crinkled his brow. "What? Who told you—?"

"No one had to tell me. I've known you for too damn long," Roger said around a yawn. "Why get married if you're not going to pass your genes onto the next generation?"

"You've been talking to Joanne, haven't you?"

"No. I was just curious. You know, I never really wanted kids—"

"There's a shocker."

"Shut up. But I never realized how badly I wanted them until I realized I couldn't have them." Mark chewed on the inside of his cheek as Roger spoke. "It's like that old song, that Joni Mitchell song: 'don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone'?"

"'Big Yellow Taxi.'"

"Yeah, that one. I kind of hate that song. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have a god point. I didn't know what I had until it was gone. Not like Mimi would ever let herself get pregnant anyway. She knew the risk as well as I did." Roger took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. "She was pregnant once, though."

Mark's eyes widened. This was news to him. "What?"

"She had an abortion. She was pregnant and she had an abortion, didn't even tell me. Didn't tell me for years. She kept it a secret almost until the day she died. She told me if I knew, it would only hurt more. I told her she hurt me by not telling me." Roger paused. "We argued. We argued and she died a week later. She just…never woke up."

"Oh, Roger…" Mark said sympathetically.

"I've gotten over it though. The abortion thing. It was for the best, you know."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I mean, say she had it. Then she died anyway. I'd be stuck raising a kid, who would most likely be sick. It would be a disaster situation."

Mark nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"I _am_ right. You don't know how lucky you are, Mark. Right from the beginning. You had two folks, grew up with money, went to private school, prep school. College."

"I dropped out of Brown."

"You still got to go. Now you're married to a beautiful woman—"

"She walked out."

"You're still married, you schmuck. Can't you see how _devoted_ she is to you? God, I don't think I've ever seen a wife like Steph: hanging onto your every word, wanting to be with you constantly. And you let her go."

"She _wanted_ to go. I don't think she was all that happy with our marriage. She wanted more and I couldn't give it to her."

"She wants _kids_. I can tell. The miscarriage must have been rough, huh?"

"It was," Mark confirmed after a pause. He sighed and stood beside Roger, crossing his arms over his chest. "She…started hemorrhaging in the middle of the night. She started screaming, and I called an ambulance. They took her to St. Vincent's. The doctors couldn't save the baby. Stephanie had a bit of a breakdown when they told her. She started yelling at me, saying it was my fault. She didn't want to stay in the hospital. She wanted to go home, but the doctor kept her overnight for an observation. She cried the entire night. She was never really the same after that."

"Did you ever…try again? To have kids?"

"Oh, sure, we did. But it just never happened."

Roger wasn't sure if he believed Mark, but he let the situation rest. "How much longer do you think Collins is going to hold out for?"

"I don't know," Mark admitted. "His doctor said as long as two years." He looked sharply at Roger. "Are you thinking of leaving?"

"I can't stay here for two years. I just can't. I'm not going to. I'll wait until after Christmas, but after that, it's anyone's guess."

Mark sighed. "Roger…"

"I don't want to talk about it," Roger snapped. "I just want to enjoy the silence."

And that's what they did.


	22. Top of the World

_Is there anybody out there?  
That can see what a man can change?  
It's better that you don't care  
Because he knows that he's in his state  
_All American Rejects, "Top of the World"

Early the next morning, Mark went into the kitchen to make some coffee, but found that Roger had beaten him to the punch. It was odd seeing Roger so early in the morning, but after having lived with him for so many years, it seemed right at the same time.

"You're up early," he remarked.

Roger shrugged. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his ankles crossed. He wore a white tank with his lounge pants. He had a coffee mug in one hand and the other was scratching Spike behind the ears, who had somehow gotten on top of the counter.

_That damn cat_, Mark thought to himself as he went to the coffeepot to pour himself a mug. He took a sip and went to sit at the kitchen table where there the newspaper was resting. _Jesus—how early did Roger get up if he had time to go get a paper? _Mark then figured he never got back to sleep after he left the rooftop.

"Cute cat," Roger remarked, rubbing Spike's head. Mark could hear the kitten purring from across the small kitchen.

"He likes you."

"He yours?"

"Steph's. I don't know why she abandoned him. A final 'fuck you', I guess."

"What's his name?"

"Spike," Mark answered. "You want something to eat?"

"No thanks. Hey Spike," Roger cooed to the kitten. Spike's eyes were half-closed and he appeared to be smiling in the way that cats could.

"I don't think he's ever acted like this around anyone except Steph," Mark observed. "He hates me."

"Mark! I'm sure he doesn't!"

"Oh, really? If I come within two feet of him, he runs away and hisses at me. Or uses me as a scratching post. He's a psycho-kitty."

"Well, if he likes me, he must not be all that much of a psycho."

"I don't know what to do with him. Let him loose? Send him to Steph in New Jersey? Take him to the pound? Maybe Joanne and Maureen want a kitten for the kids."

"Keep him."

"That is not happening. The damn thing makes me sneeze."

With an insulted mew, Spike leapt off the kitchen table and pranced into the living room.

"Well, no wonder why he doesn't like you," Roger accused. "You insult him."

"Roger, it's a _cat_."

"Cats have feelings too!"

Mark just shook his head. "Anyway. I hope you have plans tonight. I have a lot of work to catch up on."

"You don't need to entertain me, Mark. I'm a big boy."

"All right. If you're sure."

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

* * *

Around ten PM, after a few hours of wandering and riding the subway, Roger found himself on the Bowery, not far from CBGB's, his old stomping ground. On a whim, he stopped by to see who—if any—of his old comrades still worked there—bartenders, managers, it didn't matter. He needed a connection. 

The antechamber between the street and the club had hardly changed. The walls were still covered with posters, glossy and new ones covering up the old and faded; and the hanging black curtain was still there, doing little to muffle out the sound of blaring bass lines, pounding drums and wailing guitars. A new addition was a flat-screen television set up off to the side, showing _The Exorcist_ on DVD. The bouncer Roger didn't recognize: a 300-pound white guy with no hair, his arms sticking out of his black tee, covered in tattoos.

"Ten dollars," he said, when Roger approached.

"Is Bradford here?" he asked, taking a swing and picking the name of his favorite bartender.

"Bradford?" the bouncer looked over his shoulder at another guy with spiked blue hair and a lip piercing, sitting off to the side. Roger hadn't seen him before, either. The blue-haired guy shrugged. "Listen," the 300-pounder said to Roger, "you want to come in, it's ten dollars. Otherwise—"

"No, you don't understand," Roger said. "I used to play here. The Well Hungarians? Get Bradford, he'll tell you."

"I don't care if you're Joey Ramone incarnate. There's no Bradford here—"

"There a problem out here, Shane?" an older gentleman emerged from the club, pushing the black curtain aside. He was forty, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing ripped jeans and a Jack Daniels logo tee. His voice was gravelly.

"Naw, Bobby," Shane said, "just someone trying—"

"Bobby?! Bobby Granger?!" Roger exclaimed around Shane's massive frame.

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "Who wants to know?"

"It's me, Roger! Roger Davis, from the Well Hungarians!"

"Very funny. Roger Davis is dead," Bobby sneered.

"_What_?! No! _I'm_ Roger Davis! I played in the Well Hungarians, on a Vintage White Fender Mustang! I played with Leland Hawke, the drummer—a Pearl drum kit! Uh…bass! Curtis Morello on bass! And—"

Bobby stared hard at Roger. "You're serious? You're Roger Davis?"

"_Yes_!"

Another glare. "Curtis Morello said you were dead."

"Come on, Bobby. How else can I prove it to you?"

Bobby just shook his head. "Shane, let the man inside."

Shane complied with Bobby without argument, shifting aside to let Roger through.

"Jesus, Bobby," Roger gripped. "Never knew there came a time you'd make me dangle for entry."

"Look, Rog, you gotta understand—for me, this is like seeing a ghost. Curtis—"

"Curtis is an asshole, Bobby. Always was," Roger explained as Bobby ushered him inside the club. They didn't quite walk through the club and its crowd, but veered slightly to the left towards the basement, where Bobby's office was.

"Ten fuckin' years, I'm thinkin' you're dead and you show up like this, causin' trouble," Bobby muttered as he practically shoved Roger into the office chair across from the semi-circle desk. Bobby Granger ran the show in Hilly Kristal's absence, and had been a friend to the Well Hungarians when they were regulars on the bill. Roger had been in this office more than once—especially when Bobby had his dealers around.

Like the rest of the club, aging and peeling stickers smothered the office walls. Also displayed on the walls were signed and framed photographs of famous musicians that had passed through the club's doors over the years since its inception. The Well Hungarians were not displayed.

"I'm not the only one causing trouble, Bobby," Roger protested. "Hell, I didn't even know you were still in touch with Curtis. I lost touch with the guys—"

"I'm not completely out of the loop here, Davis," Bobby said, reaching over to a cooler sitting in the corner of the office and pulling out two beers. He handed one to Roger, still talking, "The guys kept me and everyone else informed on your habit _and_ that little crack whore you hooked yourself up with."

Roger's stomach lurched when Bobby referred to April as a "crack whore". "You know, despite what you or my bandmates thought of April," he said icily, "I had a pretty deep, spiritual relationship with her—"

"Yeah, I bet it was pretty deep," Bobby mimed shooting up, and Roger was mildly insulted. But instead he sighed, defeated.

"I've made a lot of mistakes, I know. Which is why I've been trying to set things right before it's too late."

"Too late? You dyin' on me?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I mean, for real?"

Roger chuckled wryly. "Well, I'm not dying tomorrow at least. I have AIDS, Bobby."

Bobby's face occupied a strange look of shock, expectation and tranquility. "You're serious."

"Why would I joke about that?"

Bobby took a long swig of his beer and contemplated this. "I had a feeling it would come to this."

"How did I die, Bobby? What did Curtis tell you?"

Bobby paused. "An overdose. In the bathroom."

A mixture of falsehood and truth. Roger silently commended Curtis. "April killed herself. She slit her wrists in the bathroom."

"Jesus. Shit, Roger. She leave a note?"

"'We've got AIDS'."

"Goddamn it," Bobby slammed his beer bottle onto the desk. "Goddamn it. That little bitch. That fucking—"

"Bobby. Don't."

"Sorry, Rog, but if it wasn't for her—"

"It's just as much my fault as it is hers. I loved her; I never even thought about the consequences, how dangerous this was. I was more concerned about getting my next high. It's all I ever really cared about," Roger thoughtfully sipped from his beer bottle. "I guess I never got my priorities straight. My pull for heroin overtook my affection for the band and I just…stopped showing up for rehearsals and gigs and…well, the guys got fed up with me and kicked me out of the band. I guess that's when Curtis told you I was dead."

Bobby nodded slowly. "Yeah. About ten years ago."

"I cleaned up soon after April's suicide. Went through six months of withdrawal, met another girl, got married and was widowed all within the period of two years. I never really made an attempt to get back together with the Well Hungarians."

"They were fine without you, I'm sorry to say."

"What?"

"They're not the Well Hungarians anymore, either," Bobby said. He went around behind the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a demo CD. He handed it to Roger. "They've moved on. They call themselves the Molotov Cocktails now."

"Wow…I expected that, but I didn't think—" Roger held the CD in his hands. He and the Well Hungarians didn't even get close to recording a demo. "Can I keep this?"

"Sure. Go for it. They're not bad."

Roger gave Bobby a sarcastic smile, "Better than when I was with them?" Bobby took a long drink of his beer to avoid answering. Roger just shook his head. "Okay, I think it's time for me to go. Thanks, Bobby."

"Nah, Rog, don't go," Bobby urged. "Come on. Finish your drink, come watch the show. There's a chick band coming on in a few minutes. They're easy on the eyes, I gotta say, and pretty rockin': part Courtney Love, part Debbie Harry. They call themselves Epiphany."

"I dunno, Bobby…"

"Come _on_. You haven't been here in ten years. Hang out a bit, will ya?"

Roger sighed and gave in. After about twenty minutes, they emerged from the downstairs office and discovered the club nearly full with teen- and college-aged kids. On stage were four girls: a blonde, a brunette, a redhead (Roger grinned) and a black girl. He assumed this was the band Bobby was talking about. They were all punk-looking, pierced, tattooed, and dyed, wearing tight shirts and tighter jeans. They were currently playing a decent cover of Pat Benetar's "Heartbreaker". The redhead was at the microphone, while the blonde supplied bass and backup vocals, while the black girl ripped up the guitar. The brunette sat behind the drum set. _Your love has set my soul on fire, burning out of control. You taught me the ways of desire, now it's taking it's toll..._

"What do you think?!" Bobby shouted over the music.

"Not bad!" Roger replied, bobbing his head to the beat. _Heartbreaker, dream-maker, love taker, don't you mess around with me_. "They definitely know what they're doing!"

"You want to get closer?!"

"I don't think we can! This crowd's pretty dense!"

"You forget who you're talking to!"

Roger laughed as he and Bobby forced their way towards the stage, where off to the right side a cluster of tables and chairs were set up two feet away from the bar. However, Roger stopped laughing once he got a good look at the girls in the band. Playing the bass like she was born with it attached to her fingers, the blonde with her hair streaked with pink, was Lucien.

_You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy..._

* * *

A/N: I hope you guys are liking these fast updates. I leave for vacation on the 30th and I want to make this complete before I leave. So, I will tell you now, there are 3 more chapters to be posted and then it will be complete! I hope you can all keep up with me! 

Also, Bobby Granger is an original character. I don't know if there is anyone like him at CBGB's. I kind of made that up. Hilly Kristal, please don't sue me?

Oh, and most of the descriptions of CBGB's are pretty much true to life. I was there twice in 2005, before they shut down forever, to see friends of mine perform. For future reference, in case anyone wants to know: there are no such things as bathroom stall doors at that club. Ever wonder why girls go to the bathroom in pairs? I think that concept originated at CBGB's—you need a partner to block the doorway for you!

PS: The Molotov Cocktails is taken from the name of my friend Adam Streicher's band.


	23. Cancer

_It just ain't living.  
I just hope you know.  
That if you say goodbye today.  
I'd ask you to be true.  
Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.  
_My Chemical Romance, "Cancer"

One evening in early November, Collins' fever rose to about one hundred and three. He couldn't be roused from his sleep. Panicked, Luc called Anti, who rushed over to examine him.

He was still breathing, Anti declared, but the fluid around his lungs was thick and the medication was only doing so much. Anti administered him a dosage of morphine to keep him comfortable and offered to stay a few hours to monitor him.

"How much longer?" Luc asked her.

"If he pulls through, he could live another few months," Anti replied. "If not, well…it'll only be a matter of time."

"Should I call his family?"

"That might be a good idea," she said with a small nod. She spoke in hushed tones and settled into the chair nearest to Collins' bed. She dipped into her Coach bag and pulled out a paperback novel. "What kind of family does he have?"

"Oh, not much, I'm afraid," Luc replied, going to the desk that Collins could no longer work at. The TV was perched on it, turned off now. He rummaged through the drawers, looking for the book of addresses and numbers. "He's got one older sister, married with two kids, in New Jersey. His parents are gone. His father was killed in a car accident when he was eight; and his mother died of heart disease…oh, about ten years ago. But his grandmother's still kicking—pushing ninety."

"Wow. Good for her."

"Oh, Eugenia's a firecracker. She practically helped raise Tom and his sister after their father died. I've met her several times. Tom adores her. She lives upstate. Ah, here it is." Luc held up the little red leather-bound book. He looked down at it in his hands. "I wish I wasn't the one that had to do this." He paused and glanced up at Anti. "I'm sorry. That must have sounded awful."

"Not at all," Anti said knowingly. "I know exactly what you mean."

* * *

Collins's older sister Sofiya reminded Mark of some sort of Saharan wildlife—perhaps a giraffe or a gazelle. She was willowy, and had an elegantly long neck, graceful long legs with a supple stride. She wore her hair in tight, well-maintained dreadlocks that went halfway down her back. Her almond-shaped eyes were amber and her hands, Mark noticed when he shook them, were strong and soft at the same time, and his skin tingled when they touched. It came as no surprise to him when he found out later that she was a massage therapist. She knew how to touch people. When she arrived at the apartment for the first time, she wore a cherry-red trench coat and a pink knitted scarf around her neck.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Mark," she said once introductions had been made. Mark had answered the door upon her arrival. Roger, for once, was not there, and neither were Joanne and Maureen. "Tom spoke very highly of you and your work."

Mark blushed inwardly. "It's very nice to meet you, too," he said. "It seems so odd to meet after all this time; I've known Collins for over ten years."

Sofiya nodded as she unwound the scarf from around her neck and shook her head, her dreadlocks whipping her shoulders. "I never thought I would lose Tom. We used to be so close," she said with a sigh.

Luc emerged from the bedroom when he heard voices. "Oh, Sofiya. You're here."

Sofiya went over and embraced him. "Luc, my God…have you slept?" she cupped his face in her hands, a motherly gesture. Luc averted his gaze and Sofiya kissed his forehead. "I'm going to go put a pot of coffee on."

"Take off your coat first," Luc said, grasping her wrists in a friendly manner. "I can't tell you what it means to me that you're here, Sofiya."

"Don't worry about a thing," she assured him. "I'll take care of everything." She pulled away from their embrace and slipped off her trench coat, draping it over a nearby armchair. She balled up the scarf and stuffed it into one of the pockets. She wore a pair of jeans and a fashionably oversized olive green sweater. On her feet were black boots. She went into the kitchen, promptly taking over. Luc sank into an armchair.

"You okay?" Mark asked him, a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you want the truth, or a really pretty lie?"

Mark gave a wry chuckle. "Sorry. It's just that you look exhausted. You should go take a nap."

"Yes," Sofiya said, returning to the living room. She sat on the couch, a gentle hand on Luc's knee. "Take a nap, Luc. I told you, I'll take care of everything."

"You don't have to, Sofiya."

"I'm just sorry you didn't call me sooner. I could have taken this workload off your shoulders."

"It doesn't bother me."

"It bothers me," she insisted. "Go on. Take a nap. I'll make dinner later. Arthur and the kids aren't expecting me anytime soon."

Luc looked from Sofiya to Mark, who shrugged. Luc sighed and pulled himself up out of the armchair. "All right. If you insist."

Sofiya and Mark watched him leave. When they heard the bedroom door close, Sofiya sighed audibly. "Well. So it begins."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, they all took shifts with Anti, sitting with Collins. Sofiya had moved in temporarily, taking over the spare bedroom. She kept the coffee flowing, and made sure everyone was well-fed. Maureen and Joanne were there as often as they could be, without Hunter or Nina. They stayed in the care of their nanny, recently hired by Joanne. Roger was a wreck, not wanting to be there. He sat on the fire escape, awaiting his shift, observing the world. When he got cold, he came inside and sat on the floor, playing endless games of Solitaire or Free Cell. Mark didn't sleep, even though he knew he should. He busied himself with reading, but he would read the same page five times before realizing it. Anti crocheted. As sad as it was true, this was business as usual for her, watching distraught friends and family members keep a vigil over their ailing loved one, the hushed words, the sleepless nights.

Nearly a week before Thanksgiving, Anti gave a grim report. Collins's vitals were low. His pulse was weak and his breathing was shallow. She was keeping him on a morphine drip to keep him comfortable. Fearing that it wouldn't be much longer, everyone cancelled their holiday plans, and Thanksgiving was spent in Chelsea. Joanne's parents took Nina and Hunter for a long weekend in Aspen. Sofiya and Luc, in an attempt to make this holiday a joyous one, cooked dinner, and they all ate too much out of courtesy. Roger spent the majority of the night on the rooftop, huddled in his leather jacket, chain-smoking. Sofiya's husband Arthur, and their children, Penelope and Spencer, arrived to say hello. They had planned to go to Arthur's parents' house to celebrate, but Sofiya bowed out. Arthur and the children didn't stay too long—they were clearly uncomfortable.

And then came the night when, while Luc and Roger were by Collins's bedside, Mark had finally permitted himself to catch a few hours' sleep. He rested his elbow on the arm of the couch, his head propped up on his hand. Maureen slept with her head on his shoulder. Under her arm was Joanne, who had her arm wrapped around Maureen's waist, her head on her chest. Sofiya was curled up on the yellow armchair, covered in a purple knitted afghan.

When Roger emerged from Collins's room, he observed how still they all were, how silent, like statues. He didn't want to wake them, but he didn't want to be alone. He nudged Mark, gently shaking his arm. Mark grunted and his eyes fluttered open.

"What's up?" Mark whispered as Roger knelt beside the couch. "Everything okay?" He glanced to his left and saw Maureen and Joanne sleeping beside him.

"For now," Roger replied. "I just need some company."

"Does this require me to get up?"

"Not at the moment. You want me to get you anything? Coffee?"

"At this rate, I'll be pissing coffee for a year, I've been drinking so much."

Roger chuckled softly at Mark's attempt at being crude. "You sure you don't want to get up? Stretch your legs?"

"How?" Mark nodded towards the girls, still asleep, probably blissful at the fact that they weren't being awoken by a restless toddler. They had arranged for their nanny to stay overnight at their apartment.

"Hmm," Roger mused. He grabbed a few pillows from the opposite end of the couch, and handed them to Mark. "Put these under Maureen, so that she'll stay propped up. Then get out from under her so she doesn't just fall."

Mark carefully eased himself out from under the weight of the girls, adjusting the pillows. They barely stirred as Mark moved. He stood, his knees cracking. _Christ, I'm old_. "So, how's it going?" he asked Roger, who shrugged.

Sofiya stirred in the armchair, yawning. She stretched and threw the blanket aside.

"Did we wake you?" Mark asked.

"No, no," Sofiya insisted. "I was beginning to get a cramp. Anyone want coffee?"

"No," Mark and Roger replied simultaneously.

Sofiya stood, cracked her back, and headed into the kitchen. The blue skirt she wore moved like water whipping about her limbs. She wore a white angora sweater with it. "I think I'll make myself some tea."

Roger took a seat in the armchair Sofiya had previously occupied, and Mark perched on the arm of the sofa. He glanced at the clock—nearly three in the morning.

"Some slumber party," Roger sighed.

"It's almost like the old days. You and me and Collins."

"And Maureen, for a few months anyway, until she dumped you."

"And Benny before that."

"Benny. Pssht. That fuck."

"He and Allison divorced, you know. Years ago. He's remarried now."

"No shit? How'd you find out?"

"Joanne told me. She ran into him way back."

Sofiya returned, a mug of tea in her hands. She sat on the coffee table, facing Roger in the armchair.

"Did you want your seat back?" he asked her.

"No. I want to see your hand," she said, placing the mug beside her.

"Me?" Roger asked. "Uh, which hand?"

"The dominant hand, usually the one you write with."

Roger glanced at Mark and held out his right hand to Sofiya. She cupped it in both of hers. She ran her on fingers over his palm and he shivered a little. She had a healer's touch. "Air," she declared at first glance. "Your element is air. You have very long fingers, with low set thumbs."

"Is that good?" Roger asked.

"It's neither good nor bad. I'm just establishing your element before I go further. Your mound of Apollo, which is here," she pressed the base of his ring finger, "is very strong. Confidence, creativity, impulsiveness and extroversion."

"That's Roger," Mark commented.

"Shut up," Roger muttered. Sofiya studied his hand, running her fingers along the lines of his palm.

"Ooh. Your heart line is very broken. It must have been a rough road," she observed. "But here…here, it gets very strong. That's a good sign. It means that something is coming for you. Or, rather, someone." Roger's heart fluttered. Sofiya continued, "Your headline tells me you're strongly right-brained, but I knew that. You also have, right here, what are known as Mercury lines; they denote persistent health issues. I knew about that, too. My brother told me, years ago. Your Union lines here: strong, close relationships. You also have Travel lines. A lot of them. You've traveled many roads." She ran the pad of her thumb along another crease on his palm. "Your life line is deep. It's the deepest of all your lines."

"Does that mean I'm going to have a long life?"

Sofiya shook her head. "That's a fallacy. It does, however, tell me that you are strong. You don't let your physical health slow you down. You don't fear death—you fear loneliness." She curled his fingers inwards, making him form a fist. "You have nothing to worry about."

The bedroom door creaked open and Anti stepped out, followed by Luc. Sofiya stood and approached him, putting her hands on her shoulders. Luc did the same to her, and then heaved a great, shuddery sigh,

"It's over."


	24. Stop Crying Your Heart Out

_We're all of us stars  
We're fading away  
Just try not to worry  
You'll see us some day  
Just take what you need  
And be on your way  
And stop crying your heart out  
Stop crying your heart out  
Stop crying your heart out  
_Oasis, "Stop Crying Your Heart Out"

Stephanie wore a black dress with an empire waist, capped sleeves and a scooped neckline to Collins' funeral. Mark remembered that dress from when they had gone to see a performance of _Giselle_ at the Lincoln Center. Except, this time, she wore her hair down, not swept up in a twist and pinned back with silver combs. She did not wear the diamond teardrop earrings or the silver choker, or the strappy silver sandals. And she did not have Mark at her side.

As he sat in the front pew with Roger, Maureen, Joanne, Luc, and Collins' family, Mark felt almost guilty that he was staring at Stephanie while he was at Collins' funeral. But he couldn't take his eyes off her as people were filling into the church. It then struck Mark just how many people were here. Collins had very little family, but the outpouring of friends and colleagues—some who had come all the way from California—was overpowering.

Roger was stone-faced, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn't believe he was here. This wasn't supposed to happen. If anyone, it should be _his_ funeral that everyone would be here for. _His_ brother and _his_ sister-in-law, _his_ mother, _his_ niece and nephew. Not Collins' grandmother and his older sister, with her husband and children. Not Luc. Collins wasn't supposed to go before him. Roger felt cold, not at all like himself. He felt like he was suffocating.

The preacher at the head of the church was there to lead the service, hired by Collins' grandmother. This didn't feel right to Roger—Collins was an anarchist, a non-conformist. Where did religion come in to play?

"We are here today," the preacher began, "to honor the memory of Thomas Barrington Collins: son of Theodora and Grayson; grandson of Eugenia. Brother to Sofiya. Uncle to Penelope and Spencer."

_Barrington_. Roger smiled to himself.

"Thomas was a devoted friend and a gifted scholar," the preacher began. "He was held in high regard by his students at New York University and the University of Los Angeles, California."

Mark found it amusing that MIT was omitted, probably because Collins as expelled from there.

The preacher went on about the work Collins had done at the schools he had taught at: being the faculty advisor for on-campus gay-straight alliances; setting up his own version of Life Support at UCLA; being a popular professor with new ideas that motivated his students.

"Thomas is looking down on all of us," the preacher said that the conclusion of his eulogy. "If you are here today, you are blessed for having known Thomas. You are even more so now, as he becomes your angel, watching over us right now.

"In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, let us pray."

After the service came the burial. Collins was to be placed beside his mother, father and grandfather. Eugenia Pritchett, Collins's grandmother, approached Mark and Roger, and Maureen and Joanne in the graveyard, and offered them each a white rose to toss into the grave on top of the coffin.

"You all loved Thomas as much as we did," she said, leaning heavy on a cane. Her voice was a roll of thunder during a summer storm. "It's right."

As they murmured thanks to her and began walking towards the burial site, Eugenia grasped Roger's forearm inside his old leather jacket. "You. I know you."

Roger was surprised at the old woman's grip. "I don't think so, ma'am."

"No…no, I think I do. Roger, am I right?"

Roger's eyes widened. "Yeah…"

Eugenia blinked a few times and gazed at him. She made a small noise of amusement and released his arm. "Thomas was right."

"Right about what?"

Eugenia knocked the back of Roger's knee with her cane and continued to walk. "You have the deep look of a man who wants to rule the world," she said over her shoulder, leaving Roger dumbfounded.

As the preacher recited the burial prayer, they all threw in their roses, along with Eugenia, Sofiya and her family, and Luc. It was still not real to Roger, even as he watched the casket lower into the grave. He kept staring at the oak coffin, thinking absurd thoughts to himself.

_Alright, this isn't funny anymore. Come on, Collins, get out of there. Stop fooling around. This isn't funny. Seriously, you're not fooling anyone. Please, Collins…please, get up…_

As they departed from the cemetery, no one spoke. Roger walked with his hands shoved into his pockets, a few paces ahead of Mark and several paces behind Collins' family and Luc.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Stephanie walking closely beside a young man with dark blond hair. Both wore solemn expressions. He almost wanted to go over there, pull her away and beg her to come back. But this wasn't the time or the place.

A handful of people were headed towards Collins' grandmother's house for a small repast, and, of course, Mark and Roger and the girls were invited. Roger did not want to go.

"I don't want to be reminded that this is really happening," was his bleak reply when Mark inquired.

Mark had an uncontrollable urge to smack Roger upside the head and scold to him, _Woe is not you! _"Come on," Mark implored him. "Pay your respects to the family and then we can go, alright?" _I'm not letting you out of my sight for a second._

"Fine," he said after a pause.

* * *

A week later, Luc was emptying out the Chelsea apartment with help from Roger, Mark, Maureen and Joanne. Luc gave them permission to look through anything and everything, to take what they wanted, if they wanted anything.

Joanne busied herself with the books. Collins had a great collection of poetry, literature and, of course, varied philosophy texts—including one about the philosophies of _The Simpsons_ and another of_ The Lord of the Rings_.

Roger couldn't bring himself to take anything of Collins' as he boxed up shoes and clothes to give to the Salvation Army. Maureen helped him lovingly fold everything and pack it away.

As Luc and Mark were digging through years of papers, documents, lesson plans and letters from UCLA, NYU and MIT, Luc uncovered, at the very bottom of the pile, a very thick manila envelope.

"Hmm," he said to himself. He turned the envelope over in his hands. Mark glanced at it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know. There aren't any labels on it, and it's sealed."

"Should we open it?"

"Might as well," Luc replied, already prying open the brad that held the envelope closed. He reached in and pulled out a stack of papers. He rested it in his lap and read the title page out loud to Mark: _La Vie Boheme. A Memoir by Thomas B. Collins. _

"A memoir?" Mark repeated. "Collins wrote a memoir?"

"Apparently," Luc said, in awe. He flipped through the pages—nearly three hundred neatly typed single-spaced pages. "This is incredible. All this time, I never knew. Did you?"

"No, not at all."

"This probably took him _years_. I mean, this is his life on these pages."

"I wonder if he expected to get this published. I sure as hell would read a book about his life. Did he ever tell you he ran naked—?"

"—through the Parthenon. Yeah. He called it one of his proudest moments," Luc smiled fondly.

"The American Embassy had to come bail him out of jail," Mark chuckled.

"I wonder if that's in here," Luc fanned the pages.

"Probably. Luc," Mark said after a pause. "Maybe _you_ could try to sell this to publishers."

"Really?"

"Well, what else are you going to do with it?"

Luc stared at the title page and flipped it over. The next page held a dedication: _For Angel and Luc_, it read.

"I should talk to Eugenia first," Luc said reluctantly, putting the manuscript back into its envelope.

"Okay," Mark nodded. "Sure."

Outside, Roger's Volkswagen bus was parked. Mark and Luc began bringing boxes down so that Roger could drive them to Salvation Army, in their coats, scarves and gloves. The air smelled sharply of snow. Their breath curled out of their mouths like smoke.

A few things, such as the yellow armchair and Collins's desk, Luc couldn't bear to part with. He had arranged for them to be sent to his apartment in New Orleans.

"I really appreciate all the help from you guys," Luc said as they each carried a box to the curb. He put down his box and pulled out Roger's keys from the pocket of his jeans. He opened the hatch of the bus and hoisted the box into it.

"We wouldn't dream of leaving you to do this by yourself," Mark assured him, handing him the box that he was holding. Luc gave him a small smile. "So, when do you head back to New Orleans?"

"Next week," Luc revealed. He closed the hatch and leaned against the side of the bus, his heels on the curb. "I'll stay there for a few weeks, then my sister Caterine is moving in to watch the place while I go back to California and finish grad school. I only have a year left."

"Best of luck with that," Mark said sincerely. "I've been thinking of going back to school myself. I don't know if Collins ever told you, but I never graduated. I'd like to finish."

"Good for you," Luc nodded. "It's never too late to go back to school." He glanced up at the sky, his hazel eyes searching. He wore a Burberry scarf. "That's something Tom valued: education. He loved teaching, he loved learning even more. I learned something new every day with him." He paused. "I think you're right, about the memoir. It should be published. People need to know his story. Everything he's done, what he's been through, the people he knew. I'm going to call Eugenia tonight, and Sofiya, to see what they think."

"Good," Mark said. "It's like you said—his life is on those pages."

"Mark?" An inquiring female voice right behind him called his name. He turned his head.

"Stephanie?"

She wore a camel-brown wool coat, her hands stuffed in the pockets. She wore a black scarf around her neck. "I thought that was you. That old scarf of yours…"

Mark glanced down at the frayed material of his old blue-and-white scarf with a small frown. "What do you want, Steph?"

"I thought you might be here, but if this is a bad time—"

"It kind of is," Mark stated curtly.

"Oh," she said after a pause. "Should I come back later?"

Luc looked down at his shoes as Mark responded, "I'd rather you didn't."

Another pause. "Look, Mark, I know this isn't the best time, but…we need to talk."

"Fine. But not here. And not today."

"Tomorrow? At the Moondance?"

"When?"

"Three?"

"I'll be there."

* * *

"Hello." 

"Hi."

"Coffee?"

"Um, I think some tea, instead," Mark said, sliding into the booth, across from Stephanie. "I think I had a coffee overdose."

Stephanie wore a dark green sweater that made her eyes blaze golden. She wore subtle makeup—eyeliner and blush. In her ears were tiny gold studs. Mark thought of what Roger had said on the rooftop months ago, quoting that Joni Mitchell song, "you don't know what you got 'til it's gone." It wasn't until then that Mark realized how much he really did miss her. She clasped her hands on the table. Her nails were polished a dark berry color. She pursed her lips before she said, "It's been a tough few weeks for you, huh?"

"You could say that."

She paused. Mark could tell she was mentally rehearsing what she was going to say next. "I…I just wanted to let you know that…I still love you, Mark."

He blinked at her. "Do you?"

"What? Mark, why would I lie to you about that?"

"Who was that man you were with? At Collins's funeral?"

She rolled her eyes. "Lee Anderson. He and I were in Collins's class together. We hadn't seen each other in awhile. We went out for a drink after the burial."

"So there's nothing between you?"

"Absolutely not!" She was mildly insulted. "I'm sorry if you thought otherwise."

Mark felt relief. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "So what does this mean, now?"

Stephanie shrugged shyly, a small, nervous smile on her plump lips. "I…I wanted to know what you thought about us maybe getting back together."

A weight lifted from Mark's chest. She _did_ want him back—just as he wanted her. He swallowed hard. "Yes," he murmured.

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes," he repeated. "Yes…I want to get back together."

Her eyes brightened, "You mean it?"

"Yes." He reached out and took her hand. "Things are going to be different, too. I can promise you that."

"I didn't think you'd be so eager," Stephanie admitted.

"It's been a rough year," Mark said by way of explanation. "I don't know what's going to happen next. All I know is…I want you to be there."

Stephanie leaned over the table and planted a small kiss on his lips. Mark smiled into the kiss, and felt, for the first time in several months, some relief.


	25. Epilogue

_Play it again,  
__Our games of love and lust  
There's no such thing  
__No, there's never too much  
And we were so, so sure, oh we never had a doubt.  
Now we're counting days to getting out.  
We were elemental, took down to bear essentials.  
Who knew we'd get so far?  
_Cartel, "Burn This City"

"December twenty-fourth, 2002," Mark narrates. "Nine PM, eastern standard time. Close on Thomas Roger Cohen, one year and one month old."

He zooms in slightly on the baby, dressed in green footed pajamas, who is sitting in Stephanie's lap, on the floor. A small Christmas tree was set up, alongside a menorah. Tommy's eyes are hazel and large, wide as saucers. He's not completely bald, but the wisps of light brown hair on his head are just filling in. He smiles at his father behind a yellow ducky pacifier.

"Steph, can't you take that pacifier out of his mouth?" Mark asks, slightly lowering the new digital camcorder Stephanie had gotten him for the holidays.

Stephanie raises an eyebrow. "You want him to start crying again?"

"Point taken. Tommy…Tommy, wave hi to the camera."

Tommy, obviously oblivious, turns his attention to the stuffed dog sitting just to the left of Stephanie's knees. He squeals out of frustration as he reaches for it.

"Someone is not interested in taking direction," Stephanie observes as she hands Tommy the dog, which he holds for a few seconds before throwing it to the floor, getting a laugh from his parents. "Tommy, go get the doggy. Wanna go get the doggy?" Stephanie lifts Tommy off her lap and puts his feet on the floor, holding his hands up over his head as he takes a few steps across the floor. Mark follows his son with the camera.

"Mark, are you getting this?" Stephanie asks, glancing up at the camera, a smile illuminating her face as she slowly let go of Tommy's hands as he took a few steps towards the stuffed dog.

"I'm getting it, I'm getting it," he assures her, chuckling. Tommy scoops up the dog and hugs it to his chest as Stephanie claps and praises her son.

Tommy had been born on Thanksgiving the previous year, making Mark all the more thankful. He was a welcome addition to the family, christened with the name of the man that had brought him and his wife together in the first place, and, of course, Mark's lifelong friend.

He and Stephanie had fully reconciled. Ever since Tommy came into their lives, Mark and Stephanie's relationship became stronger, much stronger. As Tommy grew over the passed year, they were like two young kids discovering the inner workings of a new toy, trying to figure out how it all worked.

In the year following Collins' death, things shifted amongst the circle of friends. Once Stephanie moved back into the apartment a week after the funeral, Roger took it as a sign that he should move on. As much as Mark begged him to stay, Roger would not be convinced. He packed up the VW bus and moved on. He was planning on coming back to New York for New Year's to meet his godson.

When Roger left New York, his friends feared that he'd had another breakdown like when Mimi had died, until Mark received a phone call from him, saying he was back in Las Vegas for the time being.

Calvin had tried to set Roger up with a job in his garage, but Roger only knew the basics that he'd retained from high school auto shop. H was not as gifted with cars as his younger brother. After four months of doing oil changes, tire rotations, replacing light bulbs and pumping air into flats, Calvin had to fire his big brother. He had to replace him with someone who could do more than "the basics"—he couldn't afford to keep him on the payroll any longer. When Cal offered Roger a front-desk position, Roger refused, claiming he'd rather be unemployed than stand behind a desk all day.

While he wasn't gifted in fixing cars, Roger did have a knack for fixing instruments, particularly guitars. After another month and a half of sleeping on Calvin's couch, Roger found a job at a music shop on the Strip. Though he had no formal education or training as a luthier and relied solely on his keen autodacticsm, the proprietor of the shop was impressed with Roger's sharp ear and patience when working with the instruments, not just guitars, where his expertise was, but also with basses, banjos, cellos, fiddles, violins and pianos. He wasn't even all that knowledgeable about pianos until he began to work at the shop, but he learned quickly, and was soon tuning pianos like a pro, getting sent out on house calls.

Eventually his boss asked him if he'd be willing to teach guitar lessons at the shop, something Roger never really considered. He was making decent money as a luthier, and taking on students would certainly up the ante. Roger agreed. It wasn't long before Roger was able to find a place of his own. He called Mark as soon as he moved in and settled down.

"I'm getting old," Roger said with a sigh as he sat on his couch with a bottle of beer. Mark certainly didn't consider thirty-seven to be old—he was only thirty-five himself.

"I'm glad to hear you're happy," Mark said.

"I never said I was happy."

Mark sighed audibly, "Oh, Roger…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Roger wasn't exactly happy. He wasn't lying just to piss off Mark, something that he did find entertaining. He was as healthy as he could possibly be. He had a steady job with a reliable income. He was finally the owner of his own two-bedroom apartment. But he wasn't exactly happy. He never managed to wholly shake his depression.

Alone in the music shop in the early afternoon, a few weeks before Christmas, Roger was in his workshop replacing the strings on an acoustic guitar so that its left-handed owner could play it properly. He kept the door to the workshop open so that he could hear the doorbell if someone should come in.

The phone rang and Roger answered it, "Bach to Rock, how can I help you?"

"Roger, it's Cal."

"Hey!" Roger smiled as he put down his tools and took a seat on the nearby stool that he kept in the workshop. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you could baby-sit after you close up tonight? Layla and I have plans tonight. We have to...celebrate."

"Oh? What's the occasion?"

"I…well…you're going to be an uncle again."

"No shit? Really? She's pregnant?"

Cal chuckled sheepishly, "Yeah…"

"Congratulations!" Roger exclaimed with a smile. "Really, bud, I'm happy for you."

"Thanks."

The doorbell sounded and Roger covered the mouthpiece of the phone and called, "I'll be right with you!" Then, to Cal, he said, "Bud, I'll call you later, okay? I have a customer. Kiss Layla for me."

"You got it. Bye."

"Bye." He hung up the phone and went into the front of the store. "Hey. How can I help you?" he greeted the customer, who had her back to him, a gig back slung over her shoulder. She was examining the wall of guitars. She turned—Roger's heart stopped. "Lucien?"

Lucien smiled widely. "Wow. You remembered me. I was hoping you would."

"What…what are you doing all the way out here?" he asked slowly. He looked her up and down. She looked almost exactly the same, except for her hair. Instead of bleached blonde, she'd dyed it black-blue. She wore jeans with black lace up the sides and a red corset-style tank top. On her feet were black combat boots.

"I…I need my bass fixed," she said slowly. "I heard you're the man to see."

* * *

The taxi dropped Roger off in front of Mark and Stephanie's building. He paid the driver and looked up at the sky as he drove away. It seemed as if it was only a few seconds away from snowing. The air was icy and every inhale seemed to make Roger's lungs frost over. 

The Volkswagen bus stayed in Las Vegas. Roger didn't think the poor thing could make another cross-country trip. He had enough money by this time to afford airfare. Roger hoisted his duffel bag up onto his shoulder and pressed the buzzer for Mark to let him up.

When Roger knocked on the door to Mark and Stephanie's apartment, he only had to wait a few seconds before the door swung open. Mark answered, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Roger!" he exclaimed. He opened his arms wide and Roger fell into them. They embraced for a long time. There was so much comfort in a hug from an old friend. "Come inside."

"Fucking cold out there," Roger said with a small smile as he stepped inside. Mark closed the door behind him. "I'm not used to it."

"Well, being in the middle of the desert for two years can do that to you," Mark returned Roger's grin. He took Roger's bag from him.

"Where're Steph and my godson?" Roger asked. He shrugged off his leather jacket and unwound his scarf from his neck.

"In the baby's room," Mark replied. "I'm afraid you're going to have to sleep on the couch this time around."

"That's fine by me." Roger gazed around the apartment. For the most part, it looked the same. There were a few changes here and there: more framed pictures on the wall unit, a baby swing in one corner, a stroller by the door, a playpen filled with toys towards the center of the room.

"What's the matter?" Mark asked, noticing the soft look on Roger's face.

"Nothing," Roger said, turning towards Mark, "I was just thinking that this place looks…happier."

Stephanie entered the room again, with Tommy on her hip. "Mark, why didn't you tell me Roger was here?" she asked with a smile.

"I never got a chance to," Mark said. He came over to kiss Stephanie on the cheek and took Tommy from her. The baby had a pacifier in his mouth once again, but he made happy noises as Mark took him into his arms. Mark immediately placed him into Roger's. "Tommy, this is your Uncle Roger."

Roger laughed, "I'll never get tired of hearing that. Hey, Tommy…" Tommy looked up at Roger adoringly. His smile was clear behind the pacifier. "This is scary, Mark. He looks just like you."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Well, hopefully he'll grow out of that."

Within no time, it was as if Roger had never left New York City. It was still hard for him, but the more time he spent with Mark and Stephanie and Tommy, the more comfortable he became. Tommy took a liking to Roger rather quickly, as most babies tended to do. Roger really couldn't understand it, but even when Will and Sarah were babies they seemed to gravitate towards him. Roger found it amusing how whenever he threw a ball, Tommy moved quickly to retrieve it and bring it back to Roger. Mark was not amused that Roger seemed to mistake his son for a puppy.

Stephanie made dinner for everyone when dusk descended on SoHo. Mark opened a bottle of wine for the three of them, and they caught up on the past year. Mark told Roger about how he'd managed to complete college and earned a teacher's certificate and a BA in English, concentrating in both literature and writing. He taught high school now. He still did video editing, but no longer worked with CBS, NBC or ABC. He mainly took in smaller projects—weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs, Sweet Sixteens, etc.

_La Vie Boheme_ had debuted on the non-fiction best seller list at number 8, and rose steadily in the past year and a half. Luc and Sofiya had been very successful in selling the book to a publisher, and thanks to its sales at NYU and UCLA and everywhere in between, it had become a sensation, especially since Luc and Sofiya had set it up so that all the proceeds from the book went towards the Thomas B. Collins Memorial Fund, the mission of which was to better the lives of those in the LGBTQ community who were struggling with homelessness, abuse and HIV/AIDS.

Roger told them about the shop, about the guitar lessons he taught, about Cal and Layla having another baby.

"There's also something else," Roger said. "And I think before I tell you, we need to refill our wine glasses."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes," Roger replied, splashing a bit more Zinfandel into each of their glasses. He raised his and, before he took a sip, he announced, "Lucien and I are engaged."

Mark and Stephanie just stared, not touching their wine glasses. Roger raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"When did this happen?" Stephanie exclaimed.

"Two weeks ago," Roger replied, blushing slightly. "I proposed to her on Christmas Eve. She and Caleb came to see me in Las Vegas. She…she needed her bass fixed. I don't know how she figured out where I was…"

Mark paused. "Okay…I have something to confess."

Stephanie's eyes went wide. "Oh, _Mark_…"

"I told Lucien where you were," Mark admitted. "She said she wanted to send you a Christmas card. So, I gave her your address in Vegas and told her about the shop. I never thought in a million years she'd actually _go_ there!"

"I can't believe you did that."

"What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic," Mark shrugged.

Roger just laughed. "You son of a bitch. I should have known." He got up out of his chain and caught Mark in a headlock. He mussed up his hair and planted a brotherly smooch on the top of his head. "Which is why I'm going to make you my best man."

"Really?" Mark asked, grasping Roger's wrist, trying to get him off.

"Of course. Who else?"

"Right, right. So," Mark said once Roger had released him and sat back down, "does this mean you're moving back to New York?"

Roger sighed. "Mark…it's hard, okay? I have the shop back in Vegas. Lucien has her band and her job at the Life here, Caleb has friends…we're going to take care of that when the time is right."

"The wedding will be here, right?"

"Naturally."

"When?" Stephanie asked.

"The spring," Roger replied. "Lucien wants a spring wedding, somewhere outdoors, she said."

"Sounds lovely," Stephanie replied, beginning to clear the dinner plates. "You guys go play. I'll clean up."

Roger took Tommy from his high chair and the three boys retired to the living room. They sat on the floor with the baby, feeling like kids themselves, watching Tommy play with a rather obnoxious Tickle Me Elmo that Maureen had given Tommy for Christmas. They spoke in hushed tones.

"You remember when I told you about that Joni Mitchell song?" Roger posed, "the one I hate?"

"'Big Yellow Taxi.'"

"Yeah. About not knowing what I got 'til it's gone?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think it ever was gone," Roger mused. "I just didn't look hard enough."

Mark smiled. "It's good to have you back Roger."

"I was never gone, either."

THE END

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There are a few people I would like to thank at this point. 

Steph – for being an amazing editor and little sister, and who cured my writer's block countless times and risked her neck to do so. This girl deserves a medal.

Gaz – for her Markish personality that kept me laughing. She is the original Mark, regardless of what she says/thinks. I am NOT better at playing Mark than she is.

My other RentGirls – Monica, Trai, Sami and Lily, who bore witness to the very early stages of this fic and urged me to not only continue, but to post here.

You lovely readers – I wasn't sure if there would be any other Rent fanfics from me, but you were all so kind to me that I no longer feared approaching the task! Keep your eyes peeled for my next fic, due out sometime in early September!


End file.
